


Smart Girls

by Emmilyne



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-14 03:53:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5728639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmilyne/pseuds/Emmilyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series Missing Moments from <i>The Half-Blood Prince</i>. </p><p>Expressing your feelings is never easy and apologizing is even worse, especially when you’re seventeen. Sometimes, a little pretense is necessary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Smart Girls

When Hermione heard Ron had been poisoned, she was sitting calmly in the Arithmancy classroom, waiting to speak with Professor Vector.  It was incredibly quiet in that wing of the castle, being a weekend morning.  If it hadn’t been so still, she probably wouldn’t have heard the whispered conversation in the hallway.

 

“Dear heavens, Minerva.  Did you hear?  The Weasley boy, Ralph, he’s been poisoned.”

 

Hermione didn’t hear much after that, as her stomach had dropped to her knees and her heart instantaneously turned to ice.  But she recognized, vaguely, that Professor McGonagall had ushered Professor Slughorn into one of the classrooms.

 

It wasn’t until well after curfew, when she couldn’t do anything about it, that Hermione realized that in her haste she had left her Arithmancy textbook, along with her favorite quill, behind. 

 

The frantic run to the hospital wing was a blur, a litany of prayers and pleas that Ron would be there when she arrived.  That it wasn’t too late…  Oh God.  Hermione should have gone after Professor Slughorn and McGonagall, made them tell her he wasn’t dead.  Slughorn would have said if he was dead, right?  Would have said “dead,” not “poisoned.”

 

Ron couldn’t be dead.  He just couldn’t.  There was no way…  Hermione would know if he were dead.  She’d _know_ and he wasn’t.  He was going to be fine.  _Fine_.

 

Outside the hospital wing, Harry and Ginny were locked in intense conversation, Harry with his arms tightly crossed.  They both looked tense and upset, but not devastated.  If Ron was dead, they’d look much different, right?  He wasn’t dead.  He wasn’t.

 

Hermione interrupted their conversation without a thought, skidding to halt in front of Harry and grabbing his arms to keep from falling over.  “I heard ... Ron …” she panted.  It occurred to her that it was strange that she wasn’t crying.  Maybe she was too scared to cry.  “What happened!”

 

Harry grasped her elbows, steadying her and looking as though he was afraid Hermione were going to collapse … or go insane.  Both of which were valid concerns.  “Ron was poisoned,” he said quietly.

 

 “I got that!” she snapped, a bit too harshly.  She wanted to shake him.  “Is Ron all right?  Is he …?”  Hermione couldn’t finish the sentence.  Because it wasn’t necessary.  Because Ron was _not_ dead.

 

“He’s fine,” Harry said in a rush and relief poured from her.  “I mean … I dunno …”  Hermione did shake him this time.  Was Harry trying to kill her?  Push her over the edge?  “I mean, I got a bezoar in his mouth on time.”

 

Thank God.  Oh thank God.  Hermione nodded as her hands dropped limply and the breath she hadn’t known she was holding came hissing out.  Thank God.  She never would have believed that she would be grateful for that damn Half-Blood Prince.

 

Hermione listened intently to the story of what had happened, or at least she tried to.  By the time Harry and Ginny’s discussion had wandered off into the world of speculation, she no longer heard a thing.  Relief turned her numb.  Or maybe it was fear.  She wasn’t going to really believe Ron was all right until she saw for herself.  Alive and whole and _Ron_. 

 

She leaned against the wall, wringing her hands endlessly, until they were chapped and sore.  For hours and hours and hours, Hermione stood outside the hospital wing, where the boy she swore she would never speak to again lay, praying that she would get the chance to speak to him again.

 

Looking back, her thoughts were pretty incoherent.  Mostly things like, ‘please, God, don’t let him die’ and promises that she would forgive Ron for everything as long as he was ok.  Mixed in were a few vows that if anything _did_ happen to him, she was going to murder Lavender Brown for steeling his last few months from her.  And it wouldn’t be a pleasant death either.

 

But that wasn’t fair, not really.  Lavender stole her hopes for something more with Ron, but it was Hermione who decided that she couldn’t be friends with him anymore.  She knew that Ron was just waiting for her to stop being angry and simply start talking to him again.  He had been waiting for months.  He would happily pretend nothing happened and pick up where they left off.  And they’d go back to being friends.  Just friends.

 

That’s how it always worked with Ron.  With every one of their rows and every row Ron had with someone else.  He just waited until the other party had calmed down and pretended that it never happened.  He tried to do it after Christmas, talk to her as though he hadn’t betrayed her, broken her heart, and stomped on it for good measure.

 

Not once in their friendship did Hermione remember him apologizing to her.  And she was determined not to let Ron get away with it this time.  _This_ time, she was too humiliated, too hurt, too betrayed.  That he could do that to her in so ruthless a manner, after six years of friendship … 

 

No.  She just was not giving in this time.  If Ron wanted to be her friend again he was going to have to beg.  Beg and plead.  Or, it seemed, get himself poisoned.

 

The hours outside the infirmary were some of the longest of Hermione’s life.  All she wanted was to talk to him again.  She didn’t know what the hell she was going to say, but she _needed_ to talk to him.

 

People rushed in and out and Harry scrambled for a view of Ron, but Hermione’s feet were lead.  The placations given to them by Madam Pomfrey and the various teachers who slipped by did little to calm her.  Of course, seeing Mrs. Weasley come out bawling didn’t helped either.

 

When Ron’s parents first arrived and were escorted into the infirmary, Hermione had the horribly unkind thought that they couldn’t possibly need to see Ron more than she did.  She wished they understood.  She and Ron hadn’t spoken in _months_.  Didn’t they comprehend that she _needed_ to talk to him?

 

But when the doors finally opened, well into the evening, and Hermione found Ron lying so still and pale on the bed, she couldn’t talk at all.  All she could do was stare and collapse into the chair next to his bed, the chatter around them becoming a dull roar in her ears.

 

It wasn’t until Ron mumbled something completely incomprehensible in his sleep that her head cleared enough for her to realize that the twins had arrived.  Those mumbled sounds allowed her to breathe again, reassured her that Ron was still in there.  After all, half of his utterances were incomprehensible anyway.  He was going to be all right.  He wasn’t going to die. 

 

Hermione was even able to listen to the conversation Harry and Ginny were having with Fred and George, to try and finally take in what they were saying about the poisoning.  It almost made it worse that Ron wasn’t the target.  She managed to participate in the conversation, though her ideas were hardly up to her usual intellect and her voice was strange and hoarse to her own ears.

 

But she was glad she was paying attention.  Otherwise, she might not have been alert enough to hear Ron mutter, “Er-my-nee.”

 

Her heart stopped.  But just for a moment, then Hermione realized she must be imagining things.  Ron hadn’t _actually_ called her name in his sleep.  It was a mumble and nothing more.

 

Hermione waited, holding her breath, silently praying that Ron would say just one more thing and prove her wrong, prove he _had_ been calling for her.  But he just babbled unintelligibly and he fell asleep again.  At least now, she could reassure herself that he was truly just asleep and not ... she wasn’t going to think about that.

 

Er-my-nee.  It was probably just more babble.  A coincidental string of sounds.  Hermione was certainly assigning more meaning to it than there really was.  Please, it wasn’t as though it were _possible_ that Ron actually called out her name, in his sleep, from a hospital bed.  Did she think this was a romance novel?  Or a Daydream Charm?  It certainly sounded like something out of a recent fantasy of hers.

 

Regardless, it did make Hermione feel better and she didn’t really have the energy to analyze that further.  Besides, she was feeling … more herself.  Actually, she felt more like herself than she had in months, ever since a brooding green-eyed monster called envy took over her body. 

 

Hermione was actually able to hold some semblance of a normal conversation when Hagrid arrived.  She was even able to leave so the Weasley family could be alone.  

 

Though later, in her bed, far after curfew had ended and she couldn’t go back to the infirmary, she regretted it, wishing she hadn’t left until she’d been able to actually talk to Ron.  All Hermione had heard from him was that muffled “Er-my-nee,” that rang in her head, over and over, making her think about dangerous things, and driving her slowly insane.

 

From behind the curtains of her bed, Hermione heard Lavender gripe to Parvati in muffled tones that Ron had brushed her off this morning.  She was furious that he hadn’t spent his birthday with her. 

 

Oh, God, it was his birthday.  Ron turned seventeen today.  He became a man and almost died.  The need to see him again became so intense Hermione could hardly breathe.

But Lavender wouldn’t stop complaining and Hermione felt a rush of fury, along with the familiar need to rip her roommate’s throat out.  It was then that she realized Lavender didn’t know.  She had no idea that Ron had been poisoned and almost died.  She just thought he went off to have fun with Harry. 

 

Well, it seemed, the monster inside Hermione was far from dead, because she didn’t say one word.  She let Lavender whine and complain, and stared at the ceiling, secure in the knowledge that _she_ knew where Ron was and that … that awful girl didn’t. 

 

Hermione had been the one who waited, terrified, outside the hospital wing, _not_ Lavender Brown.  If she was a good girlfriend, the kind that was right for Ron, then she would know he was ill.  She wouldn’t need Hermione to tell her.  At least that was how Hermione justified it to herself. 

 

Eventually, Lavender and Parvati went to sleep, but the monster had been reawakened and had no intension of resting.  Doubts and questions tripped over themselves in Hermione’s mind.

 

As much as she wanted to, should she _really_ go back to the hospital wing?  What would she say to Ron when he woke up?  What would he say to her?  Did he even want her there?  Wouldn’t he rather have Lavender, instead?  Did Hermione really want to torture herself like this again?  Did she really think she could stand it if he woke up and she _wasn’t_ there?

 

The only question she knew the answer to was the last and it was a resounding, “No.” Hermione _needed_ to be there. 

 

She managed to control herself for the majority of the night, staring at her curtains and the ceiling alternately.  She desperately wanted to be sitting at Ron’s bedside.  Though, she had no idea how she could justify such a thing.  Who was Hermione to be allowed to sit with him all night long?  She wasn’t his girlfriend.  She wasn’t even his friend.  Not anymore.

 

At about quarter to five, she had had enough.  Hermione couldn’t stand her suffocating bed or this oppressive room one more minute.  She slipped out of bed and into her school uniform.  After all, though there was a clear start to the curfew, there was no clear end.  Hermione was merely getting up a tad early to get a fresh start on the day.

 

She grabbed her Ancient Runes textbook on the way out the door.  If anyone stopped her, she would just say that she was getting an early start on her studies.  Who would question that?  It wasn’t the first time Hermione had awoken early to go study.  Though this might be the _earliest_.

 

On the way to the hospital wing, she began to think maybe she _should_ be going to study.  She had no idea what she was going to say to Ron.  Hermione’s mind was racing in circles, telling her to turn around.  But her body mustn’t have been listening because before she knew it, she was at Ron’s bedside.

 

He still looked horrifically pale, even in the moonlight, but he was moving restlessly under the covers and snoring softly.  Reassured that he was all right, Hermione crumpled into a chair.  Now what?  Did she really want to sit here and wait?

 

The answer must have been yes, because Hermione settled back into her chair and opened her textbook.  She might as well study here as anywhere.  But the text swam in front of her eyes and for the first time she realized that she hadn’t slept.  Exhaustion hit her quickly and she didn’t remember anything after that.

 

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

Ron was in Potions class.  Only Snape was still the teacher, but he was fat like Slughorn and there seemed to be something McGonagallish about him as well … maybe it was the Scottish accent. 

 

But he really didn’t have time to contemplate the strangeness of his teachers as, unfortunately, his cauldron was boiling over.  Ron didn’t even know what potion he was making.  He had no idea what he was supposed to do next.  He didn’t belong in this class.  He wasn’t even close to being good enough for Advanced Potions. 

                 

Now, the potion seemed to be eating away at his cauldron.  No one else’s was doing that.  Ron could do nothing but stare, vaguely alarmed.  “Hermione?  Hermione, I think there’s something wrong with my potion.”

 

There was no answer and Ron glanced up only to see Snape smirking at him.  He turned to Hermione who sat next to him, completely oblivious to his distress.  “Hermione, I need your help.  It’s eating through the table.”  Still there was no response.  “Hermione!  Will you bloody well look at me!”

 

Ron finally realized that she wasn’t so much ignoring him as not seeing him.  As though he were invisible or not even there.  Hermione worked solemnly on her potion with perfect cuts and measurements, her perfectly graceful hand making perfect clockwise stirs, and her perfect features arranged in a perfectly serene expression.

 

Desperation started in the pit of his stomach and slowly filled Ron’s body.  Why wasn’t she paying attention to him?  The potion now eating its way through the floor was forgotten.  He didn’t give a shite about the ruddy potion or about failing the blasted class or …

 

 “Hermione!” Ron bellowed as loudly as he could.  She didn’t flinch.  Harry was looking on, smiling blandly, unconcerned.  “Listen to me!   God _damn_ you, Hermione!”  Ron forced himself into her face, shouting in her ear, but she worked on.  He tried to grab her, but there was an invisible barrier and as hard as he tried, his hands never reached her.

 

Hermione hummed to herself as she worked.  Another voice called, “Hermione,” and she looked up, immediately smiling.  Ron followed her gaze and growled.  It was Krum … or McLaggan.  More like some sort of great, hulking duck-footed combination of the two.

 

Beaming at the freakish creature, Hermione dropped her paring knife and canary feathers.  She turned to him and allowed _it_ to pull her into a vigorous snog. 

 

 “Get _off_ of her!  Hermione!  Hermione!”  Ron redoubled his effort to get to her, trying to pull the Krum/McLaggan creature off, but he never got near enough.

 

Then Lavender was suddenly standing next to him and smiling up into his face.  “Come with me, Won-Won,” she murmured seductively, pulling on his shirt. 

 

Ron shook his head frantically.  “But my potion,” he said lamely, still staring at Hermione, fighting nausea at the sight in front of him.

 

“I’ll help you with your potion,” Lavender crooned, her hands stroking his chest.

 

What the bloody hell was she going to do?  Lavender wasn’t even in Advanced Potions.  She didn’t belong here.  Ron tried to pull away, but she clung harder. 

 

“Hermione!” 

 

She wasn’t listening and he couldn’t get to her and none of this made any damn sense.  This had to be a dream.  It was the only explanation.  Nothing this _bizarre_ could be… 

 

Ron’s eyes snapped open and slowly adjusted to the darkness of the room.  Of course, it was a dream.  Thank God.  What a bloody nightmare _that_ had been.  Then it hit him.  Ron felt like absolute shite.  His throat was scratchy and dry, his head pounded, every muscle in his body ached, and he felt vaguely nauseated.  Argh.  What happened? 

 

His eyes finally came into focus and he looked around.  Wonderful.  The hospital wing.  Of course.  Where else would he be on his seventeenth birthday?  Didn’t it just---Whoa!  Hermione?

 

Sleeping soundly in a hard hospital chair was none other then the best friend who had not said one civil word to him in almost three months.  Her head was flung back and her mouth slightly open.  Hermione looked wildly disheveled with an ever-present textbook flung across her lap.  And there had never been a prettier sight.  Well, maybe pretty didn’t quite express it.

 

Ron’s first thought was that he was still dreaming, since, of course, Hermione hated him _and_ , last he’d heard, wasn’t speaking to him, which generally meant _not_ sitting at one’s bedside. 

 

He attempted to lift his arms to rub his eyes, but only succeeded in triggering sharp pains in his arms and a wave of dizziness.  _That_ felt awfully real.  And for a dream this was awfully boring.

 

Damn.  Ron couldn’t believe it.  Hermione was honest-to-god sitting vigil with him.  A slow smile spread across his face, followed by a wave of irrational giddiness that caused the pain in his body to dull significantly.

 

Did this mean she was talking to him again?  It had better.  Ron had had quite enough.  It was getting bloody ridiculous.  Since when did their rows last this long?  And _this_ time Hermione’s stubbornness was at an all time high and she was … _meaner_ than he’d ever seen her.  A clever, passionate girl was quite a scary thing when they were hacked off at you.  Or, well, anytime at all.

 

Ron had been starting to get afraid that it wasn’t going to just go away this time.  He was beginning to think he was going to have to do something drastic.  Like apologize.

_Apologize_.  The idea always made him slightly ill.  Especially when he did _not_ do anything wrong.  Well, mostly didn’t do anything wrong.  Ok, maybe he had done a few things wrong, but Hermione was being completely irrational. 

 

Ron had wondered if breaking up with Lavender would help the situation, make Hermione forgive him.  But ditching someone was a terrifying prospect.  _Almost_ as bad as apologizing to Hermione.

 

If he knew for sure that chucking his girlfriend would work and he would get Hermione back … well, _that_ would be one thing, but given Ron’s luck he would break up with the only girl that ever wanted him and Hermione _still_ wouldn’t talk to him again.

 

Well, it seemed it didn’t matter now, Ron thought with satisfaction.  All he had to do to get Hermione to forgive him was to get himself stuck in the hospital wing.  _Far_ easier than any of his other ideas.  He really should have thought of it earlier.  Under all of Hermione’s defenses and catty _girlness_ she was just too caring and too _good_ to abandon him in his time of need.

 

Ron sighed, feeling absurdly content, triumphant even.  Naturally, that only lasted a moment before it occurred to him that just because Hermione was here now, didn’t necessarily mean she wouldn’t _abandoning_ him after he was released.  Shite. 

 

Ok, this wasn’t hopeless.  He rubbed his face roughly.  He could get her to stay, he had his in.  Ron just needed to make sure---

 

His internal discussion was interrupted when his lungs decided it was the exactly the time to rebel and Ron was seized with a coughing fit that sent him into a fetal position.  What the bloody hell had happened to him?  And _damn,_ was fate really this cruel?  Couldn’t it give him one ruddy minute to plan what he was going to say the Hermione?

 

The pain in his chest and head was intense and he was having trouble breathing, but through it all, he heard a concerned yelp, “Ron!”  He forced his tightly-shut eyes open to see Hermione rush from her chair, her book falling carelessly to the ground.

 

“Are you all right?” she asked in a wonderfully soft, concerned voice as she sat next to Ron on the small bed, holding his arm and rubbing his back as the coughing subsided.

Well, _this_ was ok.  Maybe fate was on his side after all.  This was certainly a much better result than anything Ron could have hoped for with pretty much anything he _said_. 

 

“Do you want some water?”  Hermione asked quietly, cradling his head. 

 

Ron was wrong.  This was _way_ better than ok.  He nodded jerkily, giving several more weak coughs.  Ok, so maybe now he was exaggerating it a bit, but he certainly saw no reason to _stop_ coughing.  It was working, wasn’t it?  Hermione reached over and grabbed a glass from the table next to his bed and held it to his lips.  The worried look on her face was just plain _fantastic_.  He couldn’t help but act just a tad weaker than he actually felt. 

 

In reality, Hermione’s nearness was making him feel less and less sick by the second as adrenaline pumped through his veins.  Ron wrapped his hand over hers, holding her fingers to the glass as he drank greedily.  He peeked up at her, wondering if she had always looked this beautiful close-up or if he’d just forgotten.

 

The contact was leading to a strange kind of euphoria and everything seemed better than it was yesterday.  When he finished the water and Hermione took the glass away, he groaned at the loss of contact and reached for her blindly, trying to sit up.  Immediately, her hands were on his shoulders, holding him to the bed.  And that was really, _really_ ok.

 

“Careful, Ron.  You almost _died_ ,” Hermione chastised.  He’d missed her chastising.  Her voice was hoarse, making Ron wonder if she had been crying.  Had she been crying over him? 

 

“I did?” he croaked.  He should be upset about that, right?  Scared?  The happiness he was feeling was probably completely irrational.  But Hermione was fluffing his pillows and easing Ron back onto them with soft hands.  He had never been so glad that his pajamas were threadbare and thin.

 

“You were poisoned,” Hermione said in a pained voice that she reserved for the most horrible of tragedies.  Ron knew all of her voices.  How many people could say that?  Three months apart and he knew her better than Krum or McLaggen ever would. 

 

“Don’t you remember?” she asked.  Ron shook his head, wincing.  Apparently, not _all_ the pain was gone.  “You drank some poisoned mead in Slughorn’s office.”

 

“Mead?” Ron repeated dumbly, honestly having no idea what she was talking about.  Though to be fair, he was awfully distracted by her lips and he _had_ been poisoned.  According to her anyway.  Wouldn’t expect him to be all together sharp at the moment.

 

Hermione pierced her lips, in that adorable way she does that means she’s about to discuss ‘very important matters.’  “What do you remember?”

 

It took Ron a full minute to realize that she wanted him to talk.  Right, ok.  He could do that.  “Um … I remember waking up and getting my birthday presents …” 

 

Ron told her everything he could think of.  It was a humiliating story, really.  Romilda Vane?  Yelch!  Yet, he told it in enormous detail.  Anything to keep Hermione sitting there, nodding solemnly, familiar and normal.  “… when we came downstairs Lavender …”

 

Damn it, Lavender was going to be really hacked off at the way he had … then he noticed Hermione had become stiff and was no longer looking at him.  Shite.  Shite.  Shite.  How could he be so _stupid_?  Who cared if Lavender was angry?  “Then we went to Slughorn’s and I don’t remember much else,” he finished quickly.  Now, he’d really bungled it.

 

Hermione was clutching her hands together tightly, her jaw locked, and her eyes fixed to the floor.  Bloody hell, now what?  _This_ was the Hermione he’d seen for the last three months.  He hated _this_ Hermione.  He wanted was _his_ Hermione back.

 

 “Well,” she said in a clipped tone.  “It seems you are feeling quite all right, so I should be going.  If you would like, I could wake up Lavender and ask her to sit with you.”  Hermione’s words were bitter and ice cold.  They felt like a slap in the face.  What would she do if he took her up on her offer?  Damn it, she was standing.  What the hell?  How did things go so bad so fast?

 

Panicked, Ron grabbed her arm with a strength that surprised even him.  He reckoned he didn’t have time for the weak game any more.  “Wait!”

 

She paused, turning to look at him with a hard expression of her face.  Ron could lose her for good.  It was there, on her face.  Hermione was shutting him out.  He couldn’t breathe.  Impulsively, he blurted out, “I’d rather have you here than Lavender.”

 

Ron hadn’t meant to say anything that … _blatant_ , or vulnerable for that matter.  Actually, he didn’t know what he _meant_ to say, but Hermione’s face did soften, not much, but enough.  She sat back down on the bed, careful not to touch him, except that he still had his hand firmly wrapped around her forearm.  He reckoned she wasn’t very happy about that either, but he had _no_ intension of letting go.

 

Hermione kept her eyes firmly ahead.  Holding herself still and keeping her back to him, she said haughtily, “I don’t understand why you would prefer me to your _girlfriend_.”

 

Bloody hell.  She was really going to make him work for this.  Damn it.  Well, at least she was still here.  Ron settled his head back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling.  Now what was he supposed to say?  He could literally feel himself start to sweat as he tried to think of something, anything.

 

The silence must have gone on too long for Hermione’s taste and she started to stand again.  Ron tightened his grip on her arm and pulled her back.  It was now or never.  He burst out with the first thing he thought of, “Lavender’s not very smart.”

 

Hermione’s head snapped back and she met his eyes with a shocked expression.  Slowly, she sat back down, this time with her hip pressed firmly against his.  Good, this was good.  Apparently, this was a reasonable course of action.  Ron opened his mouth to speak again, but nothing came out.  Crap.  He wasn’t going to be able to look at her and do this. 

 

Fixing his eyes on the ceiling, he tried again.  “We don’t talk much, Lavender and me,” he managed to say with great effort, sweat dripping into his eyes, his face warm.  “There isn’t much to say.  She isn’t even all that fun to be around when we’re not … she doesn’t challenge me or make me think or make me want to be a better person …”  Ron trailed off, swallowing. 

 

He hoped Hermione appreciated this because it was the most difficult thing he had ever done.  Still unable to look at her, Ron concentrated on the ragged sounds of her breathing and the tension in the forearm under his hand, waiting for her to speak.

 

“Then why …?”  Hermione croaked and then cleared her throat.  Ron couldn’t look at her.  He couldn’t.  “Why are you …?  Why don’t you find someone smarter?”

 

Ron couldn’t help it, his eyes snapped back to her.  Her question was bold, but Hermione had never looked so vulnerable.  She still had her back to him and her eyes fixed across the room, but they were glistening and her profile looked almost defenseless.  It made him ache. 

 

Did she want him to find someone _smarter_?  The thought gave him the strength to press on.  “Because …”  Ron squeezed his eyes tightly shut.  This was getting harder.  When was she just going to forgive him?  “Because smart girls are kind of scary.”  His throat was dry again.

 

“How so?”

 

He almost laughed.  Was she trying to kill him?  “Um … they are strong and well, better than me at everything—”

 

“Ron—”

 

“And they know immediately when I’m not good enough.  When I’m not smart enough.  When I can’t play Quidditch good—”

 

 “No!  Ron, no!  I—”

 

If Hermione wanted to hear what he had to say she had better stop interrupting.  Ron was on a roll and she wasn’t getting another chance at this information.  “ _Smart girls_ ,” he said more forcefully, never having felt more exposed, “realize that I’m … smart girls don’t have their first kiss with inexperienced losers.  They kiss famous Quidditch—”

 

Hermione gasped.  “How?  I never said—”

 

Ron ignored her.  Could she just stay in the metaphor?  Didn’t she understand that he _needed_ the metaphor?  “Smart girls would rather snog more experienced men.  And why shouldn’t they?  They deserve a bloke who knows what to do with a girl.”  By the time he was finished he was panting and a part of him just wanted to disappear.

 

It was all so stupid anyway.  Blokes don’t get all sentimental about their first kiss.  So what, if he had it in the back of his mind that it was something he and Hermione would share?  That shouldn’t matter to him.  He wasn’t a nancy boy.

 

“Oh, Ron.”  Her choked sob finally got Ron to open his eyes.  Damn it, he hadn’t meant to make her cry.  “Ron, I …”  Hermione sniffed a bit, then said in the smallest of voices, “Smart girls can be pretty stupid sometimes and … and full of themselves.  They can forget to tell people how great they think they are ...”  Her voice broke, but she had Ron’s full attention.

 

“ _But_ ,” Hermione continued more forcefully, her jaw becoming harder.  No.  No “buts.”  He liked where this had been going.  “Smart girls can’t read minds, Ron, and when a bloke gets angry at them for something that happened two _years_ ago and doesn’t tell them, then how the hell are they supposed to know?”  When she finished she was bright red and yelling.

 

Ron was stunned speechless, his chest tight.  How much more did Hermione need from him?  He had just opened himself up more to her than he had ever … he didn’t have much more to give.  “Hermione,” he snapped before he could stop himself, “what do you want from me?  Do you want me to beg?”

 

Hermione drew herself up and took a deep breath.  Looking him unabashedly in the eyes, she primly and politely stated, “Yes, I think I would like that very much.”

 

Ron clenched his jaw and scowled at her.  He couldn’t believe it.  She was … so damned _Hermione_!  She just _had_ to strip him down to nothing.  It wasn’t enough that he had almost died.  No, she had to take away his last shred of dignity.

 

When he didn’t respond, Hermione tore her eyes away and looked back down, whispering so softly he could barely hear, “You really hurt me, Ron.  You have no idea how much and it didn’t even bother you—”

 

 “Of course, it bothers me,” he snapped back.  How could she think …?  When this whole thing started Ron had no idea Hermione would react like this, that she’d be so hurt, so rejected.  It hadn’t been his intention … well, he _had_ wanted to hurt her, to get her back.  But if he’d understood then that she’d felt _this_ strongly … well, then maybe none of it would have been necessary.

 

Hermione seemed to be in so much pain.  He wanted to make it stop.  He wanted it all to stop, but he couldn’t … completely overwhelmed, Ron opened and closed his mouth impotently.  When she finally turned her eyes back to him, he wanted to cry.

 

Looking at her pleadingly, Ron said the only thing he could think of, “Hermione, _please_.”

 

Her lip trembled and her face just sort of … crumpled.  “Well,” she choked out, “I suppose that’s good enough.”  Then Hermione sniffed and threw herself down on his chest, hugging him tightly and sobbing softly into his pajama top.

 

Ron went limp with shock.  Well, all right then.  This was ok   _This_ was brilliant.  It seemed he hadn’t bungled it after all.  Even the pain that Hermione’s weight was causing in his chest was brilliant. 

 

A moment later, Ron gladly wrapped his arms around her, smiling with relief.  It was surprisingly easy and comfortable.  His hand automatically found its way into her hair, tangling itself in her curls in a way that he had never been able to do before.  It wasn’t silky and smooth like Lavender’s, it was soft and fluffy.  But that was good, really good.  The way hair should be.

 

Ron was absurdly content for someone who had just been poisoned, on his birthday no less, and had a girl weeping onto his chest.  Maybe he should get poisoned more often; it felt _that_ good.  Unfortunately, his chest didn’t agree and he was seized with another coughing fit.

 

He tried to suppress it, but his chest heaved and his eyes watered, odd choking sounds emerging.  Hermione pulled away and a deep, hacking cough surfaced.  Ron turned his face away to spare her.  Damn it, couldn’t he have had one more minute.

 

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, wiping her face with one hand and grabbing her wand with the other.  She quickly refilled his glass and handed him more water.      

 

Regrettably, Hermione seemed to now realize that he could hold the cup on his own.  She wasn’t sitting so close anymore, either.  Shifting uncomfortably as he hastily drank, she said, “Ron, I … I reckon I should go.”

 

He jerked the glass away from his mouth, water sloshing over onto his hand.  “Why?” he whined.  “The sun isn’t even up.  Class isn’t for _hours_.”          

 

A small smile crossed her face and she looked at him almost shyly.  It was a very pretty expression, seductive even.  “You should rest,” she insisted sweetly.

 

“Hermione,” Ron drawled, smiling playfully.  Suddenly, he knew everything was going to be all right.  _They_ were going to be all right.  “How many hours have I slept?”

 

She let out a small huff of a laugh.  “A fair few.  You gave us quite a fright.”

 

Ron smiled.  “Sorry about that,” he said, though he wasn’t sorry at all.  He grabbed her hand, feeling oddly confident and uninhibited with touching her all of a sudden.  He wondered if it was his experience with Lavender that brought about the change or if it was thinking that he might never talk to Hermione again.

 

“Tell me what happened,” Ron asked in a cajoling tone, which was probably inappropriate to a talk about poisoning, but such was their lives.

 

“I suppose,” she said coyly, playing along with a half smile.

 

Hermione started to stand and Ron quickly grabbed her hand, frowning.  “Hey, where are you going?” 

 

Hermione laughed, a soft delighted sound.  “Going back to my chair.”

 

Oh.  “What’s wrong with here?”  Ron asked boldly, in a tone one used when they were flirting.  That was what he was doing, flirting with Hermione.  Not that sad, awkward, immature flirting they use to do.  But _real_ flirting.  He should probably feel guilty about it as he still had a girlfriend.  Technically, anyway.  Hopefully not for much longer.

 

Hermione blushed and Ron’s smile widened, she looked so cute when she blushed.  Sitting back down and relaxing her hand in his, she bit her lip and asked, “What if Lavender came in and saw this?”

 

Ron frowned, wishing she didn’t have to bring up that name again and just shrugged.  He hoped she understood the message, which was clearly, ‘who cares?’  Though, he was secretly thinking it was irrelevant as there was no way Lavender would be awake at this time of day.  Only his Hermione would come to see him at dawn.

 

It was obvious that she was suppressing a smirk as she drew herself up straighter and began, “Well, then, I don’t know exactly what happened, as I wasn’t there, of course.  But according to Harry …”

 

Ron leaned back and listened to the sound of Hermione’s voice, trying to look appropriately serious, and not sit there grinning like a fool.  Looked like he got what he wanted for his birthday after all.

 

 

 

* * * * *

           

 

           

Hermione was absurdly cheerful for someone who had a sum total of one hour of sleep.  Especially since that one hour was obtained at the bedside of her … best friend who had almost died yesterday.  Best friend.  Yes, it seemed they were best friends again.  Best friends with just as much potential as they always had.  Perhaps even more.  Take that, Lavender Brown.

 

Ron was well on the road to recovery.  Relief, exhaustion, and pure exhilaration had Hermione feeling giddy and vaguely dizzy.  Plus, she hadn’t really eaten in twenty-four hours, having completely forgotten about food until after she left Ron that morning and breakfast was over.  All day, it took every ounce of energy she had to stay awake in class and not fade away into the realm of daydreams.

 

Harry kept throwing her strange, concerned looks.  Perhaps, because Hermione couldn’t summon the strength, or concentration, to raise her hand, even once.  Thankfully, the professors knew what happened and refrained from calling on either of them all day. 

 

Or maybe Harry was responding to was her oddly calm demeanor when Lavender threw a fit in Charms that morning after she found out her _boyfriend_ had been the hospital wing for twenty-four hours without anyone telling her.  Just thinking about it made Hermione smile.

                

It was mid-afternoon, after Ancient Runes, when Hermione finally had a chance to go see Ron again.  Her good cheer was significantly dampened when she stepped around the corner and saw Lavender come out of the hospital wing.  She had wasted no time going to see Won-Won, it seemed.

 

For a moment, Hermione actually considered turning around and going back to Gryffindor Tower, but she’d promised Ron and he’d been so lovely this morning and he had almost _died_ , so … she stepped back into an alcove and allowed her hated roommate to pass. 

 

Hiding might have seemed a bit immature, but it served the dual purpose of avoiding confrontation and giving her the opportunity to carefully observe her rival unnoticed.  Hermione was not above taking any advantage she could get.  Three months without Ron had been hell and there wasn’t a lot she wouldn’t do to get him back.  And _this_ time she wasn’t letting go.

 

Lavender had a mopey, distracted look.  Her expression was hard to interpret, but at least she didn’t have that disgusting lovesick look that she often carried.  Though, Hermione would have much preferred tears, the kind that come after a break-up, but that was probably too much to hope for.

 

The slightly depressed look on Lavender’s face _could_ mean that things hadn’t gone well with Ron.  Which was good, of course.  But then again, she could just be upset that her precious boyfriend had almost died. 

 

Hermione was still frowning when she entered the infirmary.  Ron was lying on his side, facing away from the door.  As she came closer she realized that his eyes were closed.  Though, for some reason he didn’t really seem to be sleeping.  At least, not to her.

She narrowed her eyes, calling softly, “Ron.”

 

His eyes immediately snapped open.  “Hermione?” he whispered back.

 

She narrowed her eyes further.  “Yeah …” she said cautiously.

 

“Is she gone?”

 

“Who, Lavender?”

 

“Of course, Lavender.  Who else?  Is she gone?”

 

For a moment, Hermione could only stare at him with her mouth hanging open.  Ron was avoiding Lavender?  Pretending to be asleep?  Was she misinterpreting this, because she really wasn’t at her best?  “Um … yeah, she just left.”

 

“Oh good.”  Ron breathed a sigh relief.  With an absurd amount of energy for someone hospital bound, he sat up and scooted back on the bed to lean against the headboard.  Bright and alert, he grinned at her, like a puppy ready to play.

 

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh.  A short incredulous laugh that couldn’t be contained due to the elation rising from her stomach and the exhaustion that had stripped away any control she had over her emotions.  Well, if he wanted to play, she could play.

 

“If you’re tired,” Hermione offered sweetly.  “I could go—”

 

“No!  No, I’m fine.”

 

Giggles were threatening to erupt.  She did her best to suppress a smile as she teased, “Are you sure?  You looked as though you were napping.  I wouldn’t want to interfere with your recovery.”

 

“Hermione,” Ron whined with an adorable pout and a seductive cajoling look in his eyes.  “I’m bored.  Sit with me.  Tell me about your day.  Tell me about yesterday.  Tell me about last week.  I haven’t talked to you in _ages_.”

 

“You talked to me this morning,” she laughed, “for _hours_.”  Hermione couldn’t believe this was really happening.  It didn’t seem real and it was _way_ too good to be true. 

Ron continued to pout at her for a moment, then he burst out, eagerly, “Did you bring me my homework?”

_Definitely_ too good to be true.  Hermione blinked at him, trying to clear the cob webs from her mind.  She might just be dreaming.  It would be awful if she had fallen asleep in class.  “What?  No, I—”

 

Ron’s face fell.  “But you _always_ bring me my homework,” he said, sounding genuinely disappointed.

 

Oh.  Was that what this was about?  Suddenly, Hermione was fighting the urge to cry.  She wanted to throw herself at him and kiss him.  But he still had a girlfriend.  For _now_ , he had a girlfriend.  Things like that can change quickly. 

 

Blinking away the stinging in her eyes, she said softly, “I must have forgotten.  You shouldn’t be doing homework today anyway.  You’re recovering.  I’ll bring it tomorrow.”  Hermione smiled to herself, realizing that she now had a daily excuse to see him.  Not to mention, Lavender _could_ have brought him his homework, but he didn’t ask her.

 

Ron grinned, even as drawled huskily, “But I’ll get behind in my studies.”

 

Hermione’s heart flipped over.  If his tone and words were intended to seduce her they were certainly working.  The fluttering low in her belly surged with warmth and she could feel a flush travel all over her skin.  “Well, then, I suppose I’ll have to help you catch up,” she managed to croak out.

 

His smile was beaming as he watched her settle into the chair next to his bed.  His gaze was so warm, she thought she wouldn’t be able to stand it, but, somehow, she managed to keep up the conversation.  Though, she had no idea what they talked about.  But it was wonderful and it lasted until Harry and Ginny dragged her away for dinner.

 

Four days later, Hermione still caught herself humming happily in the hallway.  Funny how the desperate heart-wrenching fear of almost losing a loved one could be turned into something so … lovely.

 

She was walking down the hallway when she heard Harry yell, “Hermione.  Oi, Hermione.”

 

She paused and looked back to see Harry trying to extricate himself from a frowning Lavender with no little amount of difficulty.  Finally, he jogged over to her with a look of relief on his face.  It looked as though no one fancied talking to Lavender now a days.  Hermione did her best to suppress her petty smile.  She really must work on being a better person about this. 

 

“Lavender bothering you?” she asked with as much innocence as she could muster.

Harry rolled his eyes, muttering, “You have no idea.”  He put a hand on her back as he guided her to the Great Hall for lunch.  “Hey, Hermione?” he asked in a suspiciously casual voice.  “When you visit Ron, he’s … alert, right?”

 

Hermione had to bite her lip to keep from smirking.  “Mmmhmm.  Of course.”

Harry narrowed his eyes, giving her a knowing look and a lopsided smile.  “I don’t suppose you would be surprised to find that Lavender was just complaining to me that Ron is asleep every time she goes to visit him.”

 

 “Well, he does need his sleep,” she said innocently.  “It is a shame.  Poor Lavender.  So, she hasn’t had a proper visit then?”

 

She received a barking laugh and shrewd smile from Harry.  “Yeah, and I’m sure it’s just _killing_ you.”  Hermione couldn’t help it, the giggles just poured out and Harry joined in, chuckling. 

 

After they had calmed down a bit, Harry asked, “So, when do you think Lavender is going to figure out that Ron has been avoiding her?”

 

This time, Hermione didn’t even try to hide her self-satisfied smile.  “Dunno.  Lavender isn’t really very smart, you know.”

 

 

 

 

* * * * *

 


	2. Not Altogether Dumb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I missing moment from chapter 22 of _The Half-Blood Prince_.

“What are you doing up there with her?”

When Lavender started screaming, Hermione kept her eyes carefully averted and made a beeline for her dormitory. She had no intension of getting in the middle of this particular fight. 

Ron sent her pleading and panicked looks, as he babbled, “Lavender … I … we weren’t … we just …” 

His expression just about screamed, “Save me.” It wasn’t easy to ignore, but somehow Hermione managed to mumble, “I’ll be going upstairs, then.” She walked with the herd of younger students scurrying to get out of the line of fire, heading for the stairs.

She was sure that Ron would just love if his relationship (and she used that word loosely) with Lavender ended with a cat fight between her and Hermione. For over a month, he’d been practically begging her to come up with a way to get him out of his little predicament, looking for any solution that didn’t involve actually having to confront the situation. The ponce.

Well, Hermione wasn’t going to do it. As much as she wanted Ron and Lavender to be over and done with, Ron was going to have to end it without any help from her. This was his mess. 

Yet, once she reached the last stair from which she could still see the common room, she couldn’t help but look back. Ron glanced up at her with a grimace on his face. 

Goddamn it, if he backed down again … this was the perfect opportunity to end it, if he didn’t take it … maybe Hermione should have stayed and made sure that it was finished. But what was she going to do now? March down there and snatch Ron from Lavender?

Tempting, but if Ron was ever going to be in a successful relationship, and more importantly, if he was going to be in a successful relationship with her, he needed to take some responsibility. Oh God. They were doomed.

Hermione sent him an encouraging smile and mouthed, “Good luck.” His response was a miserable, pleading look, but Hermione held firm and eventually Ron sighed and turned his attention back to Lavender’s tirade.

“I can’t believe you! Are you staring at her? Ronald, what the …” Lavender’s explicatives traveled in Hermione’s wake, making her shudder. She ran the remaining five flights to her room. 

The need to get away had been intense, but as soon as Hermione reached her dormitory she found herself staring at her bed thinking, “Now what?” Thankfully Parvati wasn’t there. Hermione couldn’t even begin to imagine what she would say to her. Parvati had remained surprisingly friendly to Hermione throughout this whole affair, but whatever was happening down in the common room could change all that.

A crazy, nervous energy filled her and she paced the room until she was dizzy. Then, with nothing else to do, Hermione hurriedly put on her pajamas, which, of course, was completely daft. What was she rushing for? So she could pace in her nightclothes? It wasn’t as though she would to be able to sleep. She had never been less tired. 

In that moment, Hermione wished she had run out with Harry and gone to Aragog’s funeral when Lavender appeared. It couldn’t possibly be worse than this … this waiting. 

Oh God, what was going on with Ron? How long did it take to ditch someone? He was going to ditch her, wasn’t he? What was she thinking? Of course, he wasn’t. This was Ron, the boy who had been endeavoring over the last seven weeks to prove that the Sorting Hat wasn’t infallible and win the award for biggest coward in Gryffindor history.

The best Hermione could hope for was that Ron would somehow provoke and antagonize Lavender into breaking it off for him. God knows he was good at being antagonistic. More than good, he was right gifted. But what if that wasn’t enough? What if, instead of breaking up, they were down there snogging again? She’d kill him. She swore to God she would.

Not able to stand it another second, Hermione snuck back down the stairs, trying to appear as casual and dignified as she could. It was particularly difficult given that she was wearing her pink cat pajamas. Why the hell had she chosen those anyway?

By the time she reached the second-years’ landing, Hermione could hear muffled screaming. Definitely not the sounds of snogging. That was good. On reaching the first-years’, she could make out every shrieking word.

“Ronald Weasley, you clearly do not understand the situation. You are my boyfriend, not Hermione Granger’s!” 

Hermione rolled her eyes and fought the urge to gag as she ducked into the first-years’ lavatory to listen.

“Boyfriends do not go up to their dormitories with other girls! Not unless they are no-good-rotten-cheaters. Are you a no-good-rotten-cheater?

“What?” Ron squeaked, clearly out of his depth. “No!” One would think, after all those years of fighting with Hermione, he would be better at defending himself in a row than that.

“Then why were you up in your dormitory with her?” Lavender gritted out, sounding a bit like a woman possessed.

“Hermione’s my best friend, Lavender. I’ll do whatever I ruddy well want with her,” Ron spat. He sounded tired and frustrated and Hermione had to suppress a small squeal of delight at his words. Now, if he’d only ditch her and have it done.

Lavender gasped in outrage. “Like snog, you mean?’

“No! Stop putting words in my mouth. I said, I didn’t cheat.”

Even from upstairs, Hermione could hear Lavender’s deep hissing breaths. This would hopefully be the part where she would ditch Ron’? Please, would one of them end it!

“Ron,” Lavender said in the trembling voice of someone who was struggling to keep her emotions under control. “It is obvious that you don’t know how to be a good boyfriend. Since this is your first real relationship and Hermione Granger has clearly been … overly influential in your understanding of women, I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt …”

Oh please, don’t do that! Hermione’s head fell against the tile with a moan. This was starting to become absurd. The little b—Lavender didn’t know what she was getting herself into. Hermione would continue to be overly influential whether they broke up today, next month, or next year. But they would break up.

“Boyfriends sit with their girlfriends in class and at meals … all meals.”

Hermione groaned. Was this girl serious? 

“A boyfriend only goes to his dorm room, or any private location, with his girlfriend …”

A small voice drew Hermione’s attention from Lavender’s ridiculous demands. “Miss … um, is it all right if I use the loo?”

Hermione moaned to herself and closed her eyes. Oh dear heavens. Cheeks burning, she forced her eyes open and looked down to see a frightened-looking first-year in a full-length nightgown staring up at her. Ron was right; they were getting smaller. 

“Hi. Sarah, is it?” Hermione squeaked. Great, she sounded real grown up. Doing her best to force her voice to a more even tone, she said, “Of course, you can go to the loo.”

“Um, thanks, miss.”

“Hermione. You can call me Hermione.” 

The girl smiled shyly and slipped past her to use the toilet. As soon as she slid past her and out of view, Hermione buried her face in her hands. The mortification was boundless. She, a prefect no less, caught skulking in the first-years’ lavatory, listening to the boy she fancied’s row with his girlfriend. Pathetic. 

So, why wasn’t she leaving? And how long does it take to use the ruddy toilet? Lavender was still listing her expectations of Ron. It looked as though she had no intention of chucking him. This night just kept getting worse. Ron had better find some small drop of courage, because if he bent to these demands Hermione was going to …

“Do you understand me, Ronald!”

So much for Won-Won. Hermione held her breath as she waited for Ron’s answer.

“Thanks, miss … I mean, Hermione,” Sarah said, appearing next to Hermione suddenly and making her jump.

Hermione flushed again and nodded. What was she thanking her for? It was Sarah’s lavatory. “No need to thank—”

Lavender’s voice rose, bellowing, “Why you Goddamn ….”

Hermione gasped as Lavender, evidently not liking Ron’s answer (which Hermione was quite hacked off that she missed), broke into a string of swears so creative and explicit that Hermione blushed and covered Sarah’s ears.

Then, it got worse. “Why did you go out with me in the first place? It was all about the snogging and the … the other things. Wasn’t it? Wasn’t it? You think I’m just your slut!”

Hermione choked as she looked down into Sarah’s wide, innocent eyes, her hands firmly held over the younger girl’s ears. Glancing into the hallway, she saw a gaggle of first-years listening at their door and giggling.

“No! I … No!” Ron defended loudly, if a bit clumsily.

“It’s true! You’re with me because you think I’ll do more things than Hermione … go farther!”

That was it. Hermione had had quite enough. As much as she wanted to stay and find out what things Lavender did to her Ron, she was not going to stand by and allow these children to listen to this … sexual slander!

“Bloody hell, Lavender. I told you to leave Hermione out of this,” Ron defended and Hermione couldn’t help but smile, even as she grabbed Sarah’s hand and marched into the first-year’s room, sending the girls scattering. Lavender’s outraged scream followed. She was beginning to give Hermione a headache.

“Come on, girls, get your things,” she announced, trying to sound like a prefect and not a hysterical teenager. “You are all having a sleep-over in the second-year dormitory. Get your blankets and pillows.” The girls stood frozen, staring at her in wide-eyed shock. “Now!” 

They scrambled to get their things, but unfortunately, Hermione could still hear Lavender. “This is all about Hermione. If she had done those things—”

“What things, Lavender?” Ron yelled back.

“Do I have to spell it out for you …?”

Oh please, don’t. At least not until the girls were safely upstairs. Panicked, Hermione turned to the six first-years and yelled, “Let’s go, let’s go!” She rushed the skittering girls out of the room and up the stairs. 

Flinging open the door to the second-years’ room, Hermione announced rigidly, “In the name of interclass cooperation, you are all having a sleep-over tonight. A party of sorts,” she finished with somewhat less conviction. This was such an abuse of her prefect status. She should be ashamed of herself.

But what was she going to do? Let them listen? Oh, what would Professor McGonagall do? Break up the fight, that’s what she’d do. But Hermione was not about to do that, not when it was her best chance of riding herself of Lavender.

“But … but we’re not allowed to sleep outside our dormitory,” Sarah stuttered.

“You are allowed tonight,” Hermione insisted. Telling herself she wasn’t lying, exactly.

“But what will we do?” a second-year whined, clearly not happy with the invasion of their room.

“Here …” Hermione pulled her wand out of the elastic of her pajama bottoms and conjured hot cocoa and biscuits on the floor. Then with another flick, a bottle of nail polish appeared in her hand. She tossed it to the girl. “Have fun. But do not go downstairs!”

Hermione slammed the door behind her and pushed the guilt aside, rushing back to the first-year bathroom. She hoped she hadn’t missed anything.

Lavender’s screams became clearer as she descended the stairs. “Is this about sex? Do you want a shag, is that it? Are you trying to make me jealous so I’ll shag you?”

Now completely nauseated, but at least feeling justified in removing the girls, Hermione stumbled back into the lavatory. She shook her head sharply in attempt to remove the repulsive image Lavender had succeeded in burning into her brain. Ron had better deny the allegation or she was going to be sick right here on the floor.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Ron snapped. “Where do you even get this stuff? I’ve never—”

“Ridiculous! Now shagging me is ridiculous!”

Actually, Hermione thought it was quite ridiculous. But that was just her opinion. Though, she was glad that it seemed Ron agreed. She sank to the cool tile floor, fighting the images that Lavender provoked. She was not going to jump to crazy conclusions. They hadn’t shagged, if they had Lavender wouldn’t have said it that way. There was no shagging going on. None. Right?

“No …” Ron protested. “I mean yes … I mean we are not going to shag.”

Good. Good. Hermione smiled and sighed. That’s right, Ron, just tell the slag he is never going to touch her again. Of course, that wouldn’t be necessary if the prat hadn’t touched her in the first place. And just how far had the touching gone anyway? From the sound of things, it was clearly more than the snogging she had been so unfortunate to witness. 

Hermione realized that she was twisting her hair into knots as the possibilities ran rampant through her mind and Lavender decided to launch into another string of insults and curses. She certainly did know some good ones. 

Damn. Damn. Damn! Now her hair was a mass of knots. Anxiously, Hermione tried to comb it out with her fingers. Great, all she needed was Ron to see her like this, in her cat pajamas and nightmare hair. He’d probably beg for Lavender back as soon as he saw her. If they did manage to finish it today, that was. Desperate, Hermione attempted to twist the horrid bush into a plait.

“You’re making a mess, you know?”

Hermione’s eyes snapped up to find Parvati, looking beautiful and fresh from the shower, leaning against the door jam. Great, just great. There were times when Hermione wished she had some of those fancy swear words of Lavender’s. Flushing, she started to stand. 

“I, uh ...”

“No, it’s all right,” Parvati said kindly, smiling and gesturing for her to stay where she was. Hermione stared at her suspiciously, battling confusion as her roommate continued, “I heard Ron and Lavender down in the common room, so I figured you’d be here.”

“Oh ... what? Why?” Was Hermione that pathetically predictable? Did the whole school know about her sad little crush?

Parvati laughed softly. “Because this is exactly where I would be if I were you. Your hair is awful. You don’t plait often, do you?”

Eyes narrowed, Hermione watched her roommate come and sit next to her. What was she about? One minute she was nice, the next she insulted her. Was Parvati gathering information for Lavender? Hermione stiffened and grabbed for her wand as the other girl pulled out hers. 

Again, Parvati chuckled. “Relax. I’m just going to untangle your hair.” With a swish of her wrist and a mumbled phrase, the knots fell away and Hermione’s hair tumbled down her back in freshly brushed curls.

Hermione watched in shock as Parvati neatly parted her hair in the center and started to plait it. Carefully, she asked, “So you’re not going to tell Lavender that I was listening?”

“Please!” Parvati scoffed. “As if I need any more animosity in our dormitory.”

With a steady rhythm, she carefully weaved the hair, leaving Hermione struggling to find her bearings. Parvati had nice, calming hands. It was clear she was an expert on plaiting. But why she was doing this? Did she think Lavender would win and was trying to preemptively soften the blow? Calm the animosity? 

As Parvati fell silent, Lavender’s yells, again, came to the forefront. “Why the hell don’t you want to shag me?” 

Hermione rolled her eyes. So, they were still on this then. Did Lavender think of nothing but shagging? No wonder Ron wanted to date her. 

“Unless you don’t need to, because you are already shagging Hermione Granger.”

Hermione choked. The accusations Lavender was throwing around! Just a few minutes ago, Hermione was a prude who wouldn’t even snog Ron. Now she was a slut who was shagging another girl’s boyfriend.

Cheeks blazing, her eyes flew to Parvati. But her roommate just shook her head and rolled her eyes, her fingers busy. Hermione tried not to be obvious about the long, slow breaths she was taking.

“I told you, I didn’t cheat,” Ron yelled back. “Now would you stop insinuating that my best friend would do such a thing?”

“When you stop defending her!”

The corners of Hermione’s lips tugged upwards at the latest exchange. Ron could be wonderfully sweet and loyal. And Lavender could be—

“Lavender can be awfully thick sometimes.”

Not what Hermione was going to say but … “Why are you here, Parvati?” she whispered edgily, her smile vanishing. Mustn’t forget she was sitting there with a witch of questionable loyalties. 

Parvati shrugged in a nonchalant sort of way. “Same as you, I suppose … well, not the same …” She giggled, a knowing look in her eye as she tied a fancy knot to the end of Hermione’s plait, finishing it off. “But just like you, I want to know what happens. I have a vested interest, one might say. Seeing as I’m rooming with the two girls involved. Budge over, will you.”

Busy trying to both eavesdrop on the row downstairs and analyze Parvati’s motivations, Hermione unthinkingly did as she was told and her roommate moved to plait the other side of her hair. Hermione tried to calm her anxiety and listen for more of Ron and Lavender’s row. But the yelling had stopped and all she could hear was unintelligible mumbling.

“So, do you think they’ll finish it?” Parvati asked, after a few minutes of silence. Hermione swallowed and shrugged. Was she supposed to tell Lavender’s best friend that she sure as hell hoped so? “Personally,” Parvati said, conversationally, “I can’t wait for it to be over.”

Once again, Hermione’s eyes jerked up to Parvati, causing her to pull painfully on her hair. But her dorm mate acted as though they were discussing something as mundane as Charms homework, continuing, “And not just because Lavender hasn’t been any fun to be around for the last few months, completely ignoring me for Ron, then whining that he doesn’t pay enough attention to her. The last two months have been awful. ‘Ron didn’t do that. Hermione this. Blah blah ...’” Parvati mimicked.

Hermione giggled involuntarily and just a tad hysterically. Parvati beamed down at her and, against her better judgment, Hermione felt herself relax. She shouldn’t be listening to Parvati at all. If she couldn’t hear Lavender and Ron, she should just go to bed. Actually, she should just go to bed.

And why wasn’t Lavender talking louder? What the hell was going on down there? They had better not be making up.

“But mostly,” Parvati went on, without pausing, “I’m not enjoying watching my best friend humiliate herself over a bloke, who at least fancies, if not is completely in love with, another girl.”

Oh dear God. Every muscle in Hermione’s body tensed. Parvati did not imply what she thought she implied. Her heart was beating so fast she thought she might choke. “But … I … um …”

“All done,” Parvati announced cheerily, ignoring her babbles and smoothing the plait. Coming to kneel in front of Hermione she smiled. “It looks lovely. Your hair has gotten so beautiful over the last year. Another thing Lavender hates about you, by the way.” 

Hermione blinked at her, incredulous. Was she trying to butter her up by complimenting her awful hair? If she was, Parvati was a right fine actress. “So … are you trying to tell me that you want Ron and Lavender to break up?” And for him to instead go out with Hermione? That couldn’t be right.

“If Ron doesn’t really fancy her, then yes, I do. And we both know who Ron really fancies.” Parvati became more serious. “I told Lavender that going after Ron was a mistake right from the beginning, but she wouldn’t listen. I think it made him more attractive, the competition, taking him from you. But she never did take him from you, did she?”

Hermione flushed, looking down. She smiled a bit at Parvati, liking her more and more. She supposed she’d never fully given her roommate the credit she deserved. She was quite a witch, really.

Lavender’s voice rose again, cutting through the silence. “So why haven’t you ended it?” 

“Isn’t that just the question of the hour?” Parvati whispered conspiratorially. Hermione nodded, not able to keep herself from giggling girlishly with her roommate. 

“I’ll tell you why,” Lavender screamed, still louder, “because you’re a selfish bastard and a coward.”

Hermione winced, though she couldn’t help but agree. “It’s an excellent point,” she whispered to Parvati who covered her face with both hands to muffle her sniggers. 

Then they both jumped, as several loud crashes echoed up the stairs. “Bloody hell, Lavender. Are you trying to kill me?” Ron yelled.

Wide-eyed Parvati whispered through the giggles, “You reckon she’s a bit hacked off?”

“Well, I suppose he did have it coming,” Hermione told Parvati with a grimace and got an enthusiastic nod in response as they both dissolved into another fit of hand-muffled giggles.

“I hate you!” Lavender shrieked. 

That was followed by a sob that cut through the girls’ laughter. Parvati sighed. “That part’s less funny.”

Hermione swallowed and nodded solemnly, finally seeing how much this must be hurting Lavender. “Ron really has been horrible to her,” she whispered sincerely. She might adore Ron but he’d been rubbish as a boyfriend. Suddenly feeling guilty for all the mean things she’d said over the last few months, she took a deep breath and said, “Parvati, I never meant for Lavender to be hurt.”

It was Parvati’s turn to look incredulous as she gave a barking laugh. “Please, Hermione. All you’ve wanted was hurt Lavender and Ron. Ever since you saw the two of them snogging their faces off in the common room.” Her expression was more knowing and amused than accusatory. Hermione blushed and tried to hide a guilty smile.

Parvati laughed at her attempt. “Ha! I knew it. Personally, I’ve just been grateful that you haven’t resorted to magic for your revenge. You could really do some damage. I admire your restraint. Really.”

It hadn’t been easy. Hermione stared at her feet as she gnawed on her bottom lip. Guilt must be written all over her face. 

She had a parchment buried at the bottom of her trunk. Quite a long piece of parchment, containing an extensive list of ways she might seek her revenge on Lavender and Ron. Some were quite clever and complex, everything from glamour hexes to love potions. Hermione had found an impotence charm that had been her absolute favorite. The temptation to use it had been overwhelming on more than one occasion. That list got her through the holidays and most of January.

“Fine,” Lavender bellowed. “You can have your precious Hermione.”

Hermione’s heart stopped and then sped up dangerously. Yes, please. She met Parvati’s eyes and they widened in anticipation.

“You just remember, Ron Weasley. I ditched you. I ended it, you hear. Because you are a lousy good for nothing …”

Hermione winced at Lavender’s insult. She had certainly saved the best for last. Parvati had both hands over her mouth and there seemed to be tears in her eyes from the struggle to keep her laughter in. Lavender stomped noisily up the stairs, sniffling and sobbing. 

Hermione was in shock. Was it really, finally over? Oh God. It was done. Ron was free. She wanted to jump up and do a little dance. Though, looking at Parvati, this probably wasn’t the time or place for that.

Parvati sighed, the laughter having quickly faded. “Well, I suppose it’s time for me to do the best friend thing and go comfort Lavender.”

“Good luck,” Hermione whispered, genuinely, as she watched her stand.

“Yeah. You, too.” Parvati smirked. “I suppose, you’ll want to avoid our room for a bit. But then, you’ll have some comforting of your own to do.” She winked at her.

Hermione gasped and gave a shocked laugh at the insinuation. “Parvati,” she admonished.

Parvati chuckled. “Enjoy.” Then, halfway out the door, she hesitated and turned. 

“Hermione, I … Lavender didn’t do any of this to hurt you. She … she really fancies Ron.”

Nodding, Hermione turned her head away. She felt bad for Lavender, even if she was sickened by the idea of another girl fancying Ron. She knew what it was like to have her heart broken.

“She’s going to be really hurting right now,” Parvati continued. “So could you …?”

Not rub it in her face, flaunt her victory, and be a complete bint? It was tempting. Hermione gave a reassuring smile, saying, “Yeah, I can do that.” Parvati gave her a grateful look and slipped out the door.

Hermione took a long deep breath before standing. Ok, maybe she took several. But, oh dear God, it was finally done. There was no more Ron and Lavender. They had broken up. She should be thrilled and she was, but why was she so damn nervous? Why were her hands so slick with sweat that as soon as she wiped them off, they were moist again?

It was still just Ron, right? So, why was she hesitating? Oh God, what if everyone was wrong and he didn’t fancy her? What if now that the Lavender obstacle was gone, Ron got scared and pulled away again? Hermione would kill him. She really, really would.

She managed to make it to the top of the stairs, but froze when Ron came into view. He was alone in the common room (of course, he was alone. Who would stay with that racket going on?). Sitting on the couch, he stared into the fire pensively, bent over with his elbows on his knees.

Deep breaths, in and out. Slowly, Hermione started down the steps. What was she going to say to him? Somehow, “congratulations” didn’t seem just right, nor did, “so you’re single now. What are you going to do about it?” In the end, she softly called out, “Hi.”

Ron’s face transformed into a smile even before he turned his face toward her. He looked her over from toes to crown with a slow and smoldering gaze that made her warm and more than a little bit light-headed. When he got to her eyes, his smile widened. 

“Hi.”

With another shaky breath, one hopefully Ron didn’t notice, Hermione descended the rest of the stairs and joined him on the sofa. She rubbed her hands on her thighs, again cursing the kitty pajamas, and bit her lip. Why was he suddenly so hard to talk to? 

Swallowing, she asked, “All right, there?”

Ron shrugged. Hermione could feel his eyes on her, though she was having trouble meeting them. “So, uh … did you hear what happened?” he asked, turning to look back into the fire.

“It was kind of hard not to.” Especially, when one hides in the first-years’ lavatory to be sure they heard everything.

Ron chuckled ruefully. “Yeah, I reckon Lavender wasn’t all that quiet about it.” Was he upset about that? He certainly didn’t look happy. “So, you know she ditched me?” 

He looked at her again and Hermione nodded, not sure what to say. But that seemed ok as Ron continued, “So, you also heard … Hermione, I … I just want you to know that whatever it sounded like, Lavender and I did not shag. No way, never. We weren’t ever close, I swear,” he said vehemently, blushing bright red and appearing deeply guilty and ashamed.

Hermione was taken aback. Her eyes widened. She had never really entertained the thought that they had. Why would she think that? Why would he ask? Was he protesting too much? What the hell did they do? “I didn’t …” she sputtered.

“Good! Good, because …” Ron bravely met her eyes, but she could see that his hands were clenched together so tightly that his knuckles were white. “I wouldn’t want you thinking that I … I want you to know that whatever snogging or other things Lavender and I did, it has nothing to do with … It didn’t mean any … I’m not proud of what I did, Hermione.”

She wasn’t sure why, but suddenly Hermione felt like crying. She understood that he was trying to reassure her, but … God, those other things must have been … looking at the guilt on Ron’s face … she didn’t even want to think about it. How many “firsts” were stolen from her? She looked away and nodded.

The silence that followed went on far too long and was anything but comfortable. Hermione’s thoughts ran in circles, chasing their own tails. 

Finally, Ron cleared his throat. “So, um … you get kicked out of your room?”

Hermione stared blankly into the fire, responding absently, “It was more of a voluntary exile.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Perfectly fine.” Really, she’d gladly sleep in the hallway for the rest of term to keep Lavender and Ron apart.

“I can keep you company. If you want,” Ron offered softly, making Hermione smile and finally turn to meet his eyes.

“Aren’t I supposed to be comforting you?” she asked. Ron smiled at her with what looked suspiciously like a leer and wagged his eyebrows. “Not like that, you prat,” Hermione said in only slightly feinted outrage, giving him a shove on the chest.

Ron laughed and she couldn’t help but join in as she watched him relax back into the sofa and smile at her with that new smile he had. The one he’d been using since that night in the hospital wing. The one that simultaneously filled her with warmth and chills. The one that was just hers. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders in a way that seemed almost too casual. 

“Thanks for coming, anyway,” he said warmly.

Hermione nodded, trying to relax. This was a whole new side of Ron. A welcomed side, certainly, but bold and confident and a bit frightening. It made her wonder what she was getting herself into. A shiver of anticipation traveled through her body, leaving her tingly.

Then she felt his fingertips graze the back of her neck, intensifying the feeling astronomically. It was just the slightest of touches, along the hairline. As bold as Ron was being, there was hesitation, caution in his touch. 

Hermione leaned into him a bit. She wouldn’t want him to feel discouraged. She was rewarded by the back of his thumb brushing against her neck and jaw. His fingers traced her hair and smoothed over her plait, twisting the tip through his fingers, wrapping the curls around them.

Hermione fought the urge to close her eyes and melt into the bliss of it all. She wanted to go limp and let him touch her anywhere he wanted to, but she knew she couldn’t. She couldn’t just surrender all power to him. Ron had far too easy a go of it as it was.

“You plaited your hair,” he said in a husky voice that felt like a caress all in itself.

She barely recognized the words for the tone and the languid feelings coursing through her. When Hermione finally figured out what he said she murmured, “Mmmhmm.” It came out embarrassingly like a moan. 

Wait, what had Ron said? Did he like the plaits? He probably thought they were childish. They were childish. Why had she let Parvati do this? She was probably trying to sabotage her all along. 

“Parvati did it,” Hermione told him. As if blaming her would make it better.

His hand froze mid-caress and she chanced a glance at his face. Looking anxious, Ron said, “Really? So … are you and Parvati all right, then?”

He seemed so sweet and concerned. It was better than a thousand caresses, but then Ron’s hand started up again and Hermione needed to rethink that. “We’re fine.”

“That’s good,” he breathed, relief evident on his face. Ron leaned toward her, just a bit, making her stomach flip. He smiled softly as his eyes traveled her face and his thumb brushed her cheek. Oh God.

“I never imagined you in plaits,” Ron said with a teasing tone, gently tugging on the rope of hair. “It’s kind of …” Hermione held her breath, waiting for the familiar mocking, her mind filling in childish, ridiculous, funny … “Adorable.”

Oh, well. Adorable. That didn’t sound so bad. And the timbre of his voice suggested it was, in fact, very, very good. “Thanks,” Hermione murmured, her face unbearably warm. She was sure she was bright red. Ron, on the other hand, was barely pink. What had happened to him over the last few months? 

Not able to stand the intensity any longer, Hermione tore her gaze away and stared back at the fireplace. After months, years, of feeling as though things were going unbearably slowly, after weeks of frustration with Ron’s inability to break it off with Lavender, suddenly everything seemed to be moving at a dizzying pace. All they were doing was sitting there staring at the fire but ... wow.

His fingers and thumb slowly seduced her with the barest of caresses. Whatever had changed inside Ron these last few months, one thing was for certain, Hermione was in trouble. He could so easily consume her, make her lose all reason. But even as she thought it, she dissolved into him, leaning back against his shoulder and side, her cheek brushing his chest.

Hermione didn’t realize that she was in danger of drifting off until she heard Ron say in a low, raspy tone, “So, Hermione, what do you think about rebound relationships?”

All risk of sleep was gone in an instant as Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. “Rebound relationships?” she repeated stupidly, trying to keep the squeak out of her voice and the panic out of her chest. Oh God, was this it? Did she want it to be it? Was she ready?

“Yeah, you know, when someone breaks off a relationship and they immediately start dating—”

“I know what they are,” Hermione interrupted with a small, almost hysterical laugh. The whole situation felt oddly surreal. Things like this just didn’t happen to her.

“Oh, well then.” Ron cleared his throat nervously, looking at the flames, his fingers wrapped around the curl at the end of her plait tensely, holding it taut. “What do you think of them?”

Hermione wasn’t sure she could even speak. All the courage she had ever had was rapidly leaving her. “You mean in general?”

The arm around her shoulder was tense and unyielding. “Yeah,” he said, with a deep cautious breath, “in general.” 

“Well,” Hermione said with a swallow. “In general, I don’t think they work out too well.” Oh God, why would she say that? She was sabotaging herself and she could feel Ron’s muscles wind even tighter. She didn’t want to … but it was the truth, wasn’t it?

“Why not?” he asked rigidly, his jaw stiff, the hand in her hair almost painful.

Hermione needed to think. She had to choose her words carefully. Why was her intellect leaving her now of all times? “Well, in general, the danger is that the other party, the new girl, for arguments’ sake, would always wonder if the bloke really fancied her or if he was just hurt over the break-up and looking for any old girl to fill the now ex-girlfriend’s place.”

“Oh … well,” Ron breathed with a near laugh, relaxing measurably, his hand loosening and going back to its horribly distracting activity. “What if the bloke, for arguments’ sake, wasn’t really all that hurt over the break-up? And what if the bloke had fancied this girl, the new one, for an awful long time? Way before he started dating his recently ex-girlfriend.”

Her throat constricted, making it hard for Hermione to reply. Her eyes were stinging again. She managed to croak out, “Maybe this girl would still wonder what the rush was, if he fancied her for so long. I reckon she’d wonder if the bloke was just anxious to get back into a relationship so he wouldn’t have to miss out on any of the snogging and other things.”

Ron froze again, glancing at her wide-eyed, but then he blushed and looked straight ahead. His voice was still deeper and more ragged when he said, “But suppose this girl, the new girl, is very, very smart. Exceptionally so, really. I reckon, then, this girl would understand that when a bloke really fancies a girl, he’s perfectly willing to wait for snogging and other things … until she’d completely ready, that is.”

Hermione concentrated on taking long deep breaths. She was not going to burst into tears and she was not going to throw herself at him. No matter how much she wanted to. Heavens, when had Ron learned to say such wonderful things? 

“Well then, I suppose,” she managed, “the smart girl would want to know why the bloke didn’t wait for her in the first place. Why he went out with the other girl at all.” She held her breath as she waited for the answer.

Ron laughed in a self-deprecating manner. “That’s obvious, isn’t it? The bloke is an idiot.”

She couldn’t help the burst of laughter that bubbled out of her. When it faded, Hermione’s eyes were stinging and she rubbed her cheek affectionately against his chest, reaching out to squeeze his knee. No sooner did her hand settle on his trousers then he tensed again, turning to fix her with a look more heated than any in the past.

Was he going to kiss her? After all this time, was Ron finally going to kiss her? In the wake of a horribly messy break up with her roommate? Hermione held her breath as his other hand moved to cup her cheek, his thumb caressing her cheekbone.

Oh dear God. What the hell had she been trying to do with all her questions and hesitation? She didn’t want to wait. She’d had enough waiting. She wanted this. Right the hell now! Hermione should just take the bull by the horns and kiss him herself. 

“I think it’s safe to say,” Ron whispered, his voice barely auditable, as he stared straight into her with those amazing blue eyes, “that the particular bloke in question has learned his lesson and is perfectly willing to wait as long as it takes.”

There was no helping it this time. Hermione knew that at least one tear escaped, because Ron caught it with his thumb. “Ron,” she breathed. She didn’t think any actual sound emerged as her voice was gone.

She must have looked as though she was about to burst into tears because Ron got a panicked look and reached for her. Hermione fell into his embrace, clutching his back tightly and pressing her face into his rumpled white shirt. By the end of the day it was soft and comfortable. It smelled like him. 

It lasted far too short a time before the distinctive sound of the portrait hole opening caused Hermione to jerk away. She could just imagine the rumors flying around school the next day, Ron so newly out of a relationship. It was horrifying. She’d be considered a real scarlet woman … and Lavender would make every night in that dormitory a living hell.

Thankfully, it was only Ginny who stomped through the portrait hole. She barely spared one glance for Hermione. Though that one packed a punch, radiating aggravation. Dean climbed in behind her, yelling, “Ginny! Ginevra!”

The girl in question threw Hermione a look that said ‘you wouldn’t believe how bad my night’s been,’ before yelling back, “No, Dean! I told you. I’ve had enough.”   
Dean grunted in frustration, calling out, “Ginny, you’re being—”

Furiously, Ginny rounded on him. “What! I’m being what!” she challenged and Dean looked at her wide-eyed and afraid. With a grunt of disgust, Ginny turned her back to him and with one last glance at Hermione she stamped up the stairs.

Clearly, she wanted Hermione to follow. Wonderful. Couldn’t Ginny tell she was busy here? Dean growled and with a look of abject misery took off up the stairs to the boys’ dormitory, taking them two at a time.

Staring after him, Hermione said absently, “Bad night for romance, it seems.”  
Ron shrugged. “Or good, depending how you look at it.”

“Ron,” she gasped, incredulously, but the daft fool just grinned cheekily at her, inciting Hermione to swat at him. He just laughed all the harder. 

“I’m just saying,” Ron argued, “that maybe some of Harry’s luck rubbed off on all of us.”

Hermione rolled her eyes at him, but the sentiment was so sweet, in an awful, backwards kind of way, that she had to fight a smile. “Well,” she said primly, “several people got hurt today. That’s not so lucky.”

Ron sobered, his face transforming into a mask of guilt. “Yeah, I reckon that’s so.”  
Then she felt horrible for putting that look on his face, which was not at all acceptable. Ron should feel guilty, on multiple levels. To keep from throwing herself at him, Hermione stood up. She needed to go to Ginny—

“Hey, where are you going?” Ron cried out in alarm, grabbing her hand.

Despite the strange wonderful sensation of Ron holding her hand, Hermione managed to say in a somewhat normal voice, “I’m going to check on Ginny.”

“She’s fine. You saw her. She looked happy to be rid of him,” Ron argued, the look in his eyes pulling her back even more than the tugging of his hand.

“Ron, she was not happy.”

“Fine,” he said dismissively. “But she wasn’t all that distressed. Besides,” Ron wheedled, “don’t you want to wait up for Harry?”

Rolling her eyes, Hermione replied firmly, “He’s got the Felix Felicis potion. He’ll be fine.”

She tried to pull her hand away, but that only prompted Ron to hold tighter and ask, 

“What about me? I’ve had a break up as well. I need comforting.”

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh at that one. “I’m sure you’ll live.”

“Fine,” he muttered in a defeated whine. Sighing, he finally dropped her hand and stood. 

“Goodnight then. Can I just …” Ron fixed her with a pleading glance, pausing a moment before muttering, “Oh bugger,” and pulling her into a hug.

For the millionth time that night, Hermione was left shocked and fighting tears, and for the second time, she clutched Ron’s back and sighed into the heavenly warmth of his shirt. Maybe they had received some of Harry’s luck after all.

Clearing his throat, Ron pulled away and kissed her crown, muttering in an oddly choked voice, “G’night.”

Hermione sniffed. Unable to look at him, she mumbled, “Goodnight,” and turned to start up the stairs. 

Halfway up the flight, she heard, “Hermione.” Turning, she saw Ron staring after her with an anxious look on his face, his hands buried in his pockets.

“Yes,” Hermione prompted, wondering what on earth he was going to say now. She wasn’t sure she could handle anymore.

Taking a deep breath and holding himself up straighter, Ron met her eyes. “You know,   
Lavender ditched me because she thinks I fancy you.”

Hermione’s breath caught. That was the most direct he’d been in … well, ever. “Really, I wonder why she would think that,” she whispered, her voice coming out rough and thick.

“Well …” Ron said, looking briefly at the floor as he rocked on his heals. Resolutely, he met her gaze again, stating evenly, “Lavender might not be the brightest witch of her age, but she’s not altogether dumb either.”


	3. Brave Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A missing moment from chapter 30 of _The Half-Blood Prince_.

It occurred to Ron, while sitting at Dumbledore’s funeral, that even with all the people who had died over the last few years, he had never really been close to any of them.  He had probably known the Sirius best.  But still, he was merely Ron’s best friend’s Godfather, another member of the Order of the Phoenix.  His death hadn’t affected him personally.  Not the way Dumbledore’s did now.

  

He wondered why that was.  Could he really say he was _close_ to Dumbledore?  It wasn’t as though Ron hung around with him.  He didn’t think he had ever actually been alone in a room with the Headmaster … late Headmaster, that is.  Ron let out a deep breath as he corrected himself.  Late Headmaster.

 

The thing was, Dumbledore felt like a member of the family.  Ron looked around at the enormous crowd who had come to pay their respects.  Maybe it was as though he was a part of everyone’s family, every witch and wizard.  If that made any sense at all, which Ron was pretty sure it didn’t.  He wasn’t exactly excelling at making sense at the moment.

 

But Dumbledore … Dumbledore had been Ron’s first hero, back when he was a little boy.  His first, after his dad, that was.  There probably wasn’t a small wizard in Britain who hadn’t at some point dreamed of growing up to be just like Dumbledore.  Smart, powerful … _brave_.  Well, maybe the future Slytherin brats didn’t.

 

Who did those boys idolize?  When Slytherins told stories to their adoring little brothers during the summer holidays, who did they talk about, if not Dumbledore?  It was a frightening thought.  But Ron … _he_ had been in complete awe of the man.  Imagine, someone You-Know-Who feared. 

 

Ron even had a small Dumbledore figurine.  Never once had he let Ginny play with it.  Huh.  He’d always thought it was Fred who was responsible for its disappearance, but now he wondered.

 

He was nine years old the first time he met the Headmaster of Hogwarts.  Ron remembered how nervous and excited he was, only to be shocked and dismayed when Dumbledore was so … so … well, mental.  But by then Quidditch was starting to be the most important thing to Ron anyway.  He had different sorts of heroes after that.  Funny how some people can get stupider as they get older.

 

But even after that, Dumbledore was always … a part of the family.  And sitting here now, knowing that he was really, truly gone, felt like nothing Ron had ever experienced before.  There was this horrible, tearing feeling in his chest.  An empty, panicked, desperate restlessness coursed through his body, along with the need to _do_ something, to make this feeling go away, to _fix_ it.

 

But there was nothing and the wretched, defeated feeling that realization was left was almost worse.  Ron wanted to hit something, someone.  Glancing over at the worthless Ministry gits and his pompous git of a brother, Ron thought that Percy just might be a prime candidate to take some aggression out on. 

 

But then he caught sight of Harry, bravely sitting and watching the funeral with no sign of cracking under the massive amounts of shite that had been heaped upon him.  He was so much closer to Dumbledore than Ron was.  And this so soon after Sirius, who’d died only last year.  Harry had lost so many people, had felt _this_ feeling so many times.  How did he stand it?

 

Well, Ron supposed, that was why Harry was the hero while he was just the best mate.  When it came down to it, Harry was the bravest man he knew.  Ron wished he had one-tenth of his courage.  He was a cowardly little boy surrounded by brave men.

 

The list ticked off in his head.  His father, who faced not only his own potential death, but his children’s, on a daily basis.  Bill, who fought a werewolf and bore the scars proudly.  Charlie, who faced dragons and Dark wizards and a million other things a thousand miles from home, but with none of its comforts.  Remus, who willing spent his days with the creature who cursed him, all for the greater good.  Dumbledore, who never flinched, was never afraid, even when faced with his own death. 

 

And Harry.  Harry, five months younger than Ron and responsible for the well-being of the entire wizarding world.  No, the _entire_ world.  Never once did he even consider shirking his duty.  He never shrank.  He never backed down.  He was the bravest of the brave.

 

While Ron … he couldn’t face an Apparition test without shaking like a leaf.  Hell, he couldn’t even tell the girl sitting next to him, his best friend, how he felt about her.  Not without a great deal of pretense.  Sometimes, he wondered _why_ she was still there, next to him. 

 

He certainly didn’t deserve it.  Even though it was clear what she wanted … _needed_ from him, even though he wanted the same thing, Ron still couldn’t do a damn thing about it.  Because he was scared.  At that moment, he wasn’t even sure what he was scared of, but he still he wouldn’t say anything to her.  _That_ was how much of a coward Ron was.

 

Dumbledore burst into flames and Ron felt a surge of … something.  Every ending was also a beginning.  Wasn’t that what his mum used to say?  Maybe it was time for him to become a new man.  The funeral ended and Ron made a promise to himself that he would learn to be brave, like Harry.

 

But as he stared out at the lake with Hermione weeping beside him, Ron heard Harry turn to his sister and … and then he knew.  He knew he would never be as brave as Harry, as noble.  Because if Ron had Hermione, the way Harry had Ginny, he’d _never_ be able to walk away as Harry was doing now.  The mere idea brought a lump to his throat.

 

Without thinking, he reached out and placed his hand over Hermione’s.  The touch of her skin brought an overwhelming rush of emotion and Ron had to squeeze his eyes closed.  His hand contracted around hers, so tightly that it must have been painful.  Her skin was wet.  Must be her tears.  Shite.  Now he was going to cry.  He was so pathetic, and probably hurting her as well.

 

But Hermione turned her hand over in his and entwined their fingers, squeezing back with just as much force.  Ron always knew that for a girl with such a small frame, Hermione had amazing strength.

 

Somehow, Ron found the courage to look at her.  She was gazing up at him with such an open look of desperation and despair.  He admired that openness, even as it tore his already tattered insides to shreds.  He found himself cupping her cheek and wiping away the tears that were causing him so much pain.

 

“Ron,” Hermione mouthed, no sound emerging, and it was like a knife twisting in his gut, bringing unmanly tears to his eyes.  Shite, oh God, he—

 

His hand found the back of her head, sifting into her curls, and he pulled her toward him roughly.  Ron wasn’t sure what the hell he was doing, but it didn’t matter.  Just the barest tug and Hermione let out a sob, falling onto his shoulder, their entwined hands trapped between them.  Her free arm circled his waist, balling his dress robes up in her clenched fist.

 

Ron smoothed her hair and tried to fight the tears until he realized that it didn’t bloody well matter if he cried.  No one ruddy cared. 

 

He tried not to listen to his best friend breaking his baby sister’s heart, but it was almost impossible not to.  Ron felt nothing but respect for Harry.  He knew how happy Ginny made him, how much this was costing him. 

 

Ron couldn’t help but feel they belonged together, Harry and Ginny.  Who could be better for his sister than the man who cared enough to walk away?  Did Ron care enough about Hermione to do the same for her?  He took a deep, shaky breath and caught the distinctive smell of her shampoo.  He cared enough.  He just wasn’t strong enough.

 

Harry and Ginny left, separately, of course, needing a bit of time to themselves Ron supposed, and eventually, Hermione’s sobs softened.  It took Ron a while to realize his own eyes had dried.  He lightly rested his chin on the top of Hermione’s head and perused the crowd steadily moving away from the funeral site, trying to catch sight of Harry.

 

Instead, he caught Lavender Brown’s eye and she sent him a look of utter loathing.  But Ron couldn’t muster the strength to feel guilty, or to even care.  Actually, he couldn’t find the strength to care _who_ saw him holding Hermione, not Lavender, or his mum, or even the twins.  It just didn’t matter anymore.

 

Just when Ron thought he’d rather to sit there forever, Hermione sniffed and pulled away.  Even in this, she was stronger than him.  She had an embarrassed look on her face as she glanced up at him.  Swiping at her cheeks, she croaked, “I’m sorry, I must look—”

 

Ron caught her hand, pulling it away from her face.  “No.  No, don’t be … you’re … you’re perfect.”

 

Hermione stared at him in shock.  And why shouldn’t she?  Ron had never had the stones to say something like that before, to do a simple thing like tell her something nice about herself, to tell her the truth.

 

Ashamed, Ron cleared his throat, saying in a gravely voice, “Um … feel any better?”

 

Hermione looked down.  When she looked back up, she had a small, sad smile that made Ron’s chest hurt.  “A bit.  You?”

 

He shrugged.  A few minutes ago, Ron would have said “yes,” but now that Hermione wasn’t touching him anymore it seemed that tearing, empty feeling was back.  He felt a little nauseated just thinking about it. 

 

Watching the mourners file down the aisle, he felt no inclination to move.  The Ministry group looked far from devastated.  Percy looked almost bored.  Ron growled low in his throat.  “I was thinking that pummeling Percy might help,” he muttered, not realizing until after he said it that it was out loud.

 

“Ron,” Hermione admonished, laughing tearfully and swatting his arm lightly. 

 

He looked down at her.  She thought he was joking.  “Please,” Ron asked softly, only half-teasing.

 

“No,” Hermione said firmly, but there was a smile on her face, and _that_ made him feel better.  A bit anyway.  “Come on,” she said, gesturing for them to leave.

 

Ron sighed as he stood, not really feeling like moving.  When he reached the end of the aisle he looked out into the crowd and suddenly he found himself walking in the opposite direction, toward the lake.  He didn’t stop until he was a good distance away from the throng.

 

There was a soft touch on his shoulder blade, followed by an equally soft, “Ron?” 

 

Not sure what to say, he took a deep breath and turned to look down at her.  Ron gave her a small smile, because … because she was there even though she didn’t know why.  _He_ didn’t even know why he was there, or what he was doing.  The world felt … off tilt.

 

 “What’s wrong?” Hermione whispered.

 

What wasn’t?  “Besides the obvious?”  Ron said lightly and somehow managed an ironic tone and a wry smile, but Hermione gave him a pointed look that showed she wasn’t buying it.

 

Ron swallowed and looked out over the lake, burying his hands in his pockets.  “I was just thinking about Dumbledore, about how brave he was, about all the brave men—”

 

 “Not the brave women?”

 

Ron’s eyes snapped back.  Shite, now he’d insulted her, he hadn’t meant … that wasn’t …  “No, I … I mean …” 

 

But Hermione’s expression was teasing and her eyes … they held something more.  “You were thinking about all the brave men and that you weren’t one of them,” she stated gently.

 

That was his Hermione, too smart for her own good, or maybe it was too smart for _his_ own good.  Ron looked back out to the horizon and shrugged.

 

“You are, though.  A brave man.”

 

The rush of emotion Ron felt at her words was almost unbearably intense.  He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and clenched his jaw, his throat working convulsively to try and swallow the sheer force if it.  Hermione couldn’t understand how much it meant to him to have _her_ , of all people, say that … but it wasn’t true and she was smart enough to know that.

 

Again, he felt her reach out and touch him, the flat of her palm on his bicep, her fingers curling around his arm.  “Ron, I—”

 

Whatever Hermione was going to say, Ron couldn’t hear it right now.  He just couldn’t.  “Harry broke it off with Ginny,” he burst out, having no idea what possessed him to say _that_ , of all things.

 

 “What?”

 

Hermione sounded stunned, which seemed odd as she was sitting between him and Ginny when it happened.  Looking at her again, Ron saw that she was genuinely distraught by the news.  “Didn’t you hear?”

 

She shook her head, her eyes darting about the way they do when she was trying to figure something out. 

 

 “You were pretty upset,” Ron appeased, excusing her lack of attention.  Part of him wished he hadn’t heard either.  Clearing his throat, he told her, “Harry ended it right after the funeral, said he had to go after Voldemort alone, that he didn’t want to put her in danger, or for her to be used against him.”

 

 “That’s awful!” Hermione exclaimed.

 

But Ron just shook his head, looking beyond her.  “No … no, it’s strong.  That’s what brave men do.  They protect the people they have to protect, even if it hurts, even if it kills them.  Brave men aren’t afraid to walk into danger, even it they are alone, they—”

 

 “Oh, Ron,” Hermione breathed, her voice sad.  “That’s not what bravery is.”

 

He dragged his eyes back to hers.  She didn’t understand.  Hermione couldn’t really comprehend how men and courage worked.  It was different for girls.  Or maybe she did understand and she was just trying to placate him.

 

Hermione took hold of his wrists, gently urging his hands out of his pockets, and taking them in hers.  Her deep, intelligent eyes held him and he couldn’t look away.  “Ron, bravery isn’t the absence of fear.  It’s not giving in to it.  It’s doing the right thing, despite the fear.”

 

Ron nodded.  “Exactly, like walking away from a girl—”

 

“No.  No, not necessarily.”  Hermione said softly, glancing down and biting her lip.  She seemed to be gathering her strength as she straightened and met his eyes again.  “Ron, suppose a bloke fancies a girl …”

 

Ron smiled, he couldn’t help it.  She was so damned adorable sometimes.  “A smart girl?” he said in that deep, husky tone he knew always made her blush so attractively.  He was rewarded with soft pink spreading across Hermione’s cheekbones as her eyelashes fluttered nervously. 

 

“Yes, yes, a smart girl,” Hermione said.  “Say this bloke, this _brave_ bloke, fears something really bad will happen to the girl.  Maybe even fears that she will be killed—”

 

“More than anything,” Ron whispered.

 

Hermione’s face contorted as though she were about to burst into tears.  She sniffed, continuing in a thick voice, “Well then, if that’s his fear, then leaving her behind would be giving in to that fear.  It would be the opposite of brave.”

 

Ron laughed.  Through it all, he laughed, because her logic was so damned ridiculous, but also brilliant and clever and just so _Hermione_.  “That’s assuming that allowing her to be in danger would be the right thing to do?”  Which it almost certainly would _not_ be. 

 

“Well,” Hermione sighed, meeting his gaze resolutely and getting that familiar, stubborn look in her eyes.  “If she’s so smart, then the men are going to need her.  Bravery only gets one so far, you know.  And when the greater good is at stake, I reckon it would be right selfish of the blokes to leave her behind, when she is so clearly needed.”

 

Ron could only stare at her, his mouth hanging open.  How had she managed to bring things completely around and come up with an argument that he … well, that he couldn’t possibly argue with?  He found himself laughing incredulously.  She was right; she was far too brilliant to leave behind.

 

He smiled down at her.  She absolutely awed him, standing there, beaming back at him, tearstained and disheveled.  When Ron reached out for her, she automatically came into his arms, resting her cheek against his chest.  Of course, she did.  This _was_ Hermione.  She knew what he needed before he did.

 

He had just rested his chin on the top of her head again (it was amazing how easily they fit) when Hermione mumbled into his dress robes, “You are, you know.  Brave.”

 

Ron shook his head without thinking.  He knew he wasn’t brave, though it helped that Hermione thought he was.

 

“You are,” she insisted.  “Do I need to remind you of every time you went with Harry when you didn’t have to?  Every time you walked into danger, not because you had to, but because you knew it was the right thing to do?”

 

Ron chuckled ruefully.  “I didn’t _know_ anything.  It was just stupid, childish danger-lust.  I was too young to know any better.”

 

She scoffed.  “What about Aragog?”

 

He gave a bark of a laugh.  He had felt anything but brave that night.  “I was scared to death.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

Ron looked down at her.  Hermione had her face tipped up, with her chin resting on his chest and her arms around his waist.  It felt wonderfully natural and absurdly … _right_.  Maybe if Hermione thought he was brave, he could be.

 

“If I’m so brave,” Ron began, his voice uneven, “why can’t I show the girl I fancy how I feel about her?”

 

Hermione’s eyes swam and she gave him a watery smile.  “Don’t you?”  Ron frowned, confused.  He searched her face, but she just continued to smile at him.  “Maybe this girl,” Hermione said softly.  “Maybe she’s smart enough to pick up on all the hints, to see past the pretense.”

 

A broad smile spread across his face as he caught her meaning.  “And the metaphors?” he teased.

 

Hermione nodded in mock seriousness.  “Even when they are very, _very_ well disguised.”

 

This time, his laugh was sharp and almost joyful.  Looking down at her, Ron felt a wave of affection as intense as anything he’d ever felt.  He felt … _brave_.  Even so, the words he needed were frozen on his tongue. 

 

Without allowing himself to think, Ron leaned his head down and pressed his lips against hers.  Just long enough, just hard enough, to express some small snippet of what he felt for her in that moment.

 

When Ron pulled back, only seconds later, he found Hermione looking up at him with shock and wonder written on her face.  A tear slipped over her cheek … oh God, had he misinterpreted everything?  Had he … then she sniffed and smiled brightly.

 

Thank God.  Ron swallowed the massive lump in his throat and fixed his eyes back on the horizon.  She was just emotional.  That was ok.  Understandable.

 

So, well, yes, not the best timing on his part, all things considered, but at least he’d finally done it.  Hermione sank back into his embrace and he wrapped his arms more tightly around her.

 

Clearing his throat, Ron managed to say, “So, how’s that for a hint?”

 

Hermione chuckled, in a teary sort of way.  “A pretty good one, I’d say.”

 

“One might even say it was anvil-sized,” he joked.

 

She giggled, making Ron feel absurdly proud.  “Yes, I suppose one might.”

 

The silence that followed was comfortable and soothing.  Ron watched the crowd of people move en masse from the funeral site and mill about the grounds.  They would have to go soon.  The train would be leaving and it might not come back, not while they were still students, anyway.

 

It was strange to think about not coming back to Hogwarts.  But with Hermione in his arms … maybe it didn’t matter.  As long as he was with Harry and Hermione who cared where they were?  Besides, Harry said there were other … Harry …

 

Ron stiffened, immediately causing Hermione to pulled back and look up at him with concern.  “What?”

 

“Harry,” he murmured, going over what he had heard his friend say to Ginny in his mind.  Shite, why hadn’t Ron realized earlier.  He was _so_ stupid.  “Harry told Ginny that he needed to go find Voldemort,” he repeated.  “That he needed to do it _alone_.”

 

“As in without _us_?”  Hermione asked in an outraged tone, the fire coming back into her eyes.  Ron looked down at her and shrugged.  That must be what he meant.  “Alone” generally meant, well … alone.  Harry meant to leave them behind. 

 

“The hell he is!” Hermione bit out angrily, pulling out of Ron’s arms in her fury.  “We’re _not_ going to let him get away with this!”

 

The corner of Ron’s lip twitched.  Watching Hermione ready herself for battle, passion radiating from her, he felt oddly calm.  “No.  No, we’re not,” he agreed softly.  Suddenly, it felt as though the answers were obvious.  It was a good feeling.

 

Hermione nodded sharply, as though to say she was pleased that her troupes were in accord.  “Well, we’re just going to have to find him and tell him wherever he goes, we go.”  She grabbed Ron’s hand and turned with a characteristic flounce, pulling him toward the crowd.

 

But Ron didn’t move.  He stood still, watching her, as the full ramifications became clear to him.  Following Harry was no small thing, now more than ever before.  Hermione, clearly frustrated by Ron’s unwillingness to be pulled along, turned back to him, confused and more than a little annoyed.

 

Ron took a breath, saying carefully, “Do you understand what this means, Hermione?  Once we tell Harry we’re going to stand by him there is no going back.”  He watched the expressions play over her face, knowing what his decision was, but needing to know that she’d thought this out, in full Hermione fashion.

           

She pierced her lips.  Dropping his hand and placing hers on her hips, she fixed him with a furious glare.  “You _can’t_ be saying that you would actually let Harry go alone—”

 

“No.  No, that’s not what I’m saying at all.  I’m …  I’m going wherever he’s going, I just—”

 

“But not me, is that it?” Hermione practically shrieked, her foot taping.  “Haven’t we just been over this?  I don’t want to hear some over-protective—”

 

“No, you’ve convinced me.” Ron couldn’t help but laugh, putting his hands up in a position of surrender.  “We need you.”  Of course, they needed her.  What would they do without her?  “But … have you thought about what all this would mean?  To your future?  Harry’s probably going after the Horcruxes.  That could mean being away for weeks or months, years maybe.  You’d miss school, N.E.W.T.s.”

 

Hermione rolled her eyes.  “ _If_ the school stays open.”

 

“But if it does—”

 

“Then I’m _still_ going with you and Harry.  Some things are just more important!”

 

A slow smile spread over Ron’s face.  Wherever they went, whatever happened, they’d be together.  They could do this.  “Haven’t I been trying to tell you that for _years_?” he teased.

 

Hermione clicked her tongue at him, shaking her head.  “Quidditch is _not_ one of them, Ron.”

 

He laughed, feeling infinitely more normal.  On impulse, he grabbed her hand and entwined their fingers.  “Come on.  Let’s go find Harry.”

 

Ron pulled her through the crowd.  He peered over the heads of the mourners, guiding her toward where Harry was standing with Scrimgeour.  Even from a distance, Ron could tell that his friend did not look happy.

 

That was what Ron _should_ be concentrating on, worrying about Harry and the Minister of Magic, not obsessing over the feel of Hermione’s hand in his, strangely intimate with their fingers laced.  It was oddly comfortable.  Holding hands with Lavender had always felt … confining.  _This_ felt natural.  Everything about being with Hermione felt natural and right. 

 

It was strange, one of the reasons he’d avoided his romantic feelings for her for so long was because he always felt so inferior around her, as though he could never do anything good enough.  But now … _now_ she made him feel as though he could do anything, be anything.  She made him want to _try_ , to be the man Ron wanted to be, to be brave.  No wonder he was in love—

 

Whoa!  Love?  Who said anything about love?  Well, obviously he _loved_ Hermione.  Ron had even told her that, but was he _in_ love with her?  Was _that_ what this was?

 

He didn’t realize that he had stopped dead, in the middle of the lawn, until he heard Hermione call, “Ron?  What is it?”  

 

She was staring up at him with concern.  She was flushed, her eyes were swollen and her face tearstained.  Her hair was an utter mess and, oh dear God, he was in love with her.  Ron was in love with Hermione Granger.

 

“Ron.  Ron!” she yelled over the din of the crowd.  “ _What’s_ wrong?”

 

He shook his head, feeling oddly numb, as though the air around him had suddenly become thick.  He felt as though he was submerged in water.  The noise around them faded to a dull hum.  Should he tell her?  Now?  Oh shite.  Oh God.

 

“Nothing.  Nothing’s wrong,” Ron muttered distractedly.  But then again, this probably wasn’t the place, being that it was a funeral and all.  Right.  Good.  Later then.  Shaking himself, he announced, pointing, “I see Harry over there.  Let’s go.”

 

Ignoring her confused and somewhat put-upon look, Ron pulled her through the crowd, walking determinedly toward Harry, where they planned on telling him that they would follow him to the ends of the earth, to their deaths maybe.

 

Ron swallowed.  Probably best not to think about that.  Best to think positively and not dwell on the negative.  It was time to be that brave man Hermione seemed to think he was.

 

Maybe then, Ron could find the courage to tell her that he was in love with her.

 


	4. Finding the Courage

Ron was lying on a narrow cot, crammed into Harry’s pathetically small room at the Dursleys’, staring at the ceiling.  It was actually smaller than Ron’s room at the Burrow, if such a thing was possible.

 

He was supposed to be researching, reading this horrifically boring, musty old book on Helga Hufflepuff that Hermione had taken out of the large library in Diagon Alley.  Ron could only get through approximately two paragraphs at a time before his brain shut down and flat-out refused to do anymore.  Then, before he knew it, he was thinking about something else.  Usually Hermione.

 

That was what Ron was doing now, lying on his back, with his hands behind his head, thinking about Hermione.  More specifically, he was thinking about the _only_ thing he could concentrate on lately.  What the _hell_ he was going to do about the frightening revelation he had two weeks ago at Dumbledore’s funeral?

 

A million scenarios flew through his mind, detailing various responses Hermione might have to Ron telling her he was in love with her.  Her imaginary reactions ranged from disgust followed by the total destruction of their friendship, to euphoria followed by full-on shagging.  He didn’t delude himself the last fantasy was in any way realistic, but thinking about it was certainly an enjoyable way to spend an afternoon.

 

 “Ron, have you finished the Helga Hufflepuff text?”  Hermione called in a tired tone as she stepped into the small room, flinging the door open and fixing him with an annoyed look.

 

Ron jerked up at the sound of her voice, trying not to shrink from the scowl that had become increasingly common over the two weeks they had spent at number four Privet Drive.  They hadn’t originally intended on staying that long, but reconsidered after Harry’s relatives, terrified at the mere idea of living in the same house as an of-age witch and wizard, quickly took off for an extended holiday, leaving the entire house to the three of them.

 

One would have thought, with all the time alone, Ron would have had plenty of opportunities to work things through with Hermione.  Well, she seemed to think so anyway and as the days passed without much ‘alone time,’ she became increasing angry and frustrated.  And she made no attempt to hide who she was irritated at.

 

Normally, Ron would say that Hermione was overreacting, being irrational.  He’d

say, clearly, it was _not_ his fault.  Except this time, it probably was.  Ron _had_ been putting a ridiculous amount of effort into _not_ being alone with Hermione.  It seemed ever since he’d realized how he felt he had no idea what to say to her.  Maybe it was because, oh yeah, she scared the shite out of him.  Even _worse_ than before.

 

“Ron!” she screeched, coming over and violently slamming her hand down on the book that had slipped and was now covering his lap.  Hermione had better be careful there.  If they were ever going to have much of a future that was _not_ an area she’d want to damage.  “Have you been reading this at _all_?”

 

“Um … yes … I, um … I did … I was …” Babble, babble, mutter, mutter.  That was all that came out around her anymore.

 

“You’re napping!” Hermione accused, in a tone that suggested she had just discovered that Ron had become a Death Eater.

 

 “No!  No, I was …”  He was wide-awake.  Wide awake and thinking about her, in not altogether innocent ways.  Frantic, he grabbed his wand.  “I was practicing silent magic.  See.”  Ron stared at the book repeating _Wingardium Leviosa_ in his mind.  He was surprised when the book twitched.  Not bad.

 

Hermione gave a growl of disgust and snatched the book from his lap.

 

“What?” Ron asked with false innocence.  “It’s important to practice—”

 

Hermione didn’t allow him to finish.  “I’ll be in my room,” she snapped, turning and flouncing through the door with one last angry glower.

 

Ron stared after her, feeling utterly incompetent, completely pathetic.  Groaning, he buried his head in his hands.  He was such a git.  _Now_ what was he supposed to do?

The door slammed and he jumped, his eyes jerking over to see Harry leaning against the door staring at him with a disapproving glare, not entirely unlike Hermione’s.  Damn, Ron forgot he was even in the room.

 

“What did you do _now_?”  Harry demanded.

 

“What?”  Again, Ron tried his innocent-voice.  Maybe it would work better with Harry.

 

“Don’t give me that shite!”  Harry spat with disgust.

 

Reckon not, then.

 

“You and Hermione are rowing again,” Harry accused with a weary sigh.  “If we’re all going after the Horcruxes together, I can’t have you two at each other’s throats.  You were fine at Dumbledore’s funeral.  What the hell happened?”

 

Ron squeezed his eyes tightly shut, and threw himself back onto the cot with a groan, but only managed to hit his head on the wall instead.  The bloody thing was far too small for him and he couldn’t transfigure it because the room was too damn tiny and he couldn’t exactly ask Hermione to enlarge the room, so ...  Goddamn it.  “Nothing,” he muttered, rubbing his now bruised head.

 

“Ron,” Harry hissed.

 

Why was Harry bothering him?  He usually kept a careful distance from Ron and Hermione’s … whatever the hell this was.  “Really, _nothing_ happened.  I haven’t done _anything_ , not since the funeral,” he muttered. 

 

And that was precisely the problem.  Hermione was clearly expecting _something_ and all she was getting was _nothing_.  Because despite all her talk about brave men, Ron was a big fat coward.

 

Harry rolled his eyes.  “So what happened at the funeral, then?”

 

Ron realized he was in love with her.  Is that what he wanted hear?  Ron almost laughed at the mere idea of admitting _that_ to Harry.  The two boys never talked about girls.  Harry, at most, asked a few superficial questions.  He _had_ tried to patch up his and Hermione’s rows before, but in a very neutral, non-confrontational way.

 

For the first time, Ron almost felt as though Harry were taking Hermione’s side.  Not that he shouldn’t take Hermione’s side.  She was in the right.  This time.  But, how the bloody hell did _Harry_ know that?  As far as he knew, Ron could be the victim here.

           

“Nothing happened at the funeral,” Ron lied.  Then feeling guilty, he admitted, “Well, I _did_ kiss her.”

 

“At the funeral!”  Harry squeaked, disgust evident in his tone.  It intensified Ron’s shame.  He certainly had the timing of the century.

 

“Not a full snog or anything,” Ron defended.  “It just … it just happened.”  It had just felt like the thing to do.  “It was more about comfort than anything,” he muttered.  But there had been implication behind it, meaning.  At least on his end, there was.

 

“So Hermione’s upset because …?”

 

“Well,” Ron said with a grimace, “I imagine it’s because I haven’t mentioned it since.”

 

Harry groaned, collapsing next to him and making the stupid cot buckle precariously.  “Ron, mate … er … you know I’m not one to give romantic advice.”

 

Ron laughed, or maybe he choked.  One or the other.  He couldn’t help but think that the only place Harry would have acquired any experience, to give said advice, was through his sister.  _That_ thought wasn’t going to make him relax.  Though, he wasn’t exactly comfortable getting romantic instruction from anyone.  Maybe that was the problem. 

 

“I don’t want to interfere,” Harry continued.  “You’re both my best mates, but bloody hell, Ron, you obviously fancy the girl.  She sent a pack of crazed canaries after you, she fancies you so much.  So, what the _hell’s_ the problem?”

 

Ron grunted in response, flinging his arm over his eyes and wishing he could simply disappear.  _Anything_ but answer that question.

 

“What was that?”

 

Growling, Ron yelled in frustration, “I’m a bloody coward.  That’s the problem.”

 

Harry had the gall to laugh.  “Well, obviously,” he taunted.  He was worse than his wretched brothers.  “But what are you afraid _of_?”

 

Ron laughed bitterly.  Had Harry _met_ Hermione?  Was there anything more frightening?  He was scared of being with her.  He was scared of never being with her.  He was scared of being with her and then losing her.  There was no way out.

 

 “Goddamn, Ron—”

 

“You’re one to talk,” Ron attacked, not able to stand the scrutiny any longer.  “You fancy Ginny and broke up with her.  What’s _your_ problem?” 

 

Harry turned red and Ron immediately regretted his words.  He understood what the problem was and it was no laughing matter.  He shouldn’t have—

 

“That’s _not_ the same thing,” Harry barked.

 

Ron knew that as well, but like a cornered animal with no way of escaping, he lashed out irrationally.  “How do you know it’s so different?  You don’t—”

 

“I know I want to be with Ginny and if I could be with her, I would,” Harry snapped, making the first overt declaration he had ever made to Ron.  “But I’m the bleeding Chosen One and I really don’t fancy getting her killed, not to mention the fact that I need to concentrate on killing an unkillable wizard.  Is _that_ why you aren’t with Hermione?  Because if it is that doesn’t make one bloody lick of—”

 

“I know!”  Ron cut off the tirade, feeling even worse.  “You’re right,” he muttered, dragging his hands over his face.  How could he compare his petty insecurities to what Harry was going through?  His reasons were far from noble and as for trying to concentrate … well, Ron couldn’t possibly be more distracted than he was now.

 

Harry took a deep breath and nodded.  He was looking away from Ron now, his expression carefully unreadable.  Ron read it clearly as pain.  Bloody hell, he was such an arse, but at least he’d distracted Harry from—

 

“So, what are you afraid of?” Harry repeated, even more firmly.

 

Shite.  Was he ever going to give it up?

 

“Are you worried that it won’t work?” Harry asked, turning back to him.  He looked a bit defeated.  Ron should have never brought up Ginny.  “That it will hurt our friendship?  Because, honestly, that is the only reason I can think of.” 

           

Unfortunately, Ron could think of about a million more.  He shrugged.  “A bit.”  But, that was an understatement.  Hermione leaving him without even her friendship was the worst of his fears.  The worst he could put into words anyway.  It would almost be better if they just stayed friends.  If he could stand it, that was.

 

“Well, that’s just daft,” Harry pronounced with irritation, surprising Ron.  “We’ve both seen the damage _not_ dating can do to your friendship.”

 

Ron didn’t want to talk about this.  He didn’t want to talk about that winter.  He felt trapped as though he were suffocating.  “It’s more than that,” he forced out.

 

“If it’s—”

 

Shut up.  Shut up.  Shut up.  Why was Harry torturing him?  “Being in a relationship is scary, ok,” he admitted in a rush.  “ _Scary_.”  God, he was pathetic.

 

“What do you mean, _scary_?”

 

Harry looked confused.  Of course, the great Harry Potter would never be scared of something as simple as a relationship.  “It’s just … intense,” Ron mumbled.

 

“Lavender—”

 

Clearly, Harry didn’t get it.  “No, not Lavender,” Ron said, frustrated.  “It’s different with Hermione, but even with Lavender  ...  you saw how crazy she got about commitment and feelings and shite.”

 

Frowning, Harry seemed to be grappling with the idea.  “So … you’re afraid that Hermione will get that way as well?”

 

“No … yes … no …”  No wonder Harry didn’t understand.  Ron wasn’t even following his _own_ train of thoughts.  “With Hermione it _would_ be about commitment and feelings and shite.  That’s the problem.”  Please, let him understand.

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

Of course, he didn’t.

 

“Ron, isn’t that how it’s supposed to be?”  Harry asked, clearly confused.  Was life so simple for him?  “I mean when you fancy a girl, that’s what it’s like.”  He had a depressed look on his face.  It was an awful lot like his martyr-look.

 

Great, the guilt for bringing up Ginny resurfaced.  Ron squeezed his eyes shut tight.  It looked like the only way out of this conversation was through it, as horrifying as that sounded.  “It’s about more than just fancying,” he admitted hoarsely.

 

“What do you mean _more_?”

 

And they called Ron thick.  “I’m in love with her, ok?” Ron all but screamed.  Instantly, he regretted it.  Crap, what if Hermione had heard him?  “Are you happy now?”

 

Harry didn’t look happy.  In actuality, he looked down-right terrified and a touch green.  Good, now maybe he could start to understand what it was like being Ron.  “What?  How?  I mean … _Shite_ , Ron.  How do you know?”

 

“I just know,” Ron ground out, reaching to grab a discarded pillow from the floor.  Maybe, he’d try one of Ginny’s old tricks and just hide behind it until everyone left him alone.  He wondered if it only worked when one was six.

 

“But, bloody hell, Ron …” Harry continued.  It seemed, he was as tenacious as Hermione today, seizing the pillow and yanking it away from him.  “ _Love_?  I mean, when did you figure—?”

 

“A couple of weeks ago,” Ron muttered, contemplating making a run for it.

 

“But how—”

 

“Dunno.”

 

“But—”

 

“Damn, Harry!  Since when do you want to talk about this shite?”

 

Harry became very still, finally looking as uncomfortable as Ron felt.  “I don’t.  I just …  I _don’t_ …”

 

He never finished the thought.  Whatever he was going to say, hung, unfinished, over one of the most awkward silences of their friendship.  Just when Ron thought that the conversation was finally, blissful over, Harry started up again, asking softly, “So, if you’re in love with Hermione, why don’t you—?”

 

“We’ve been over this,” Ron moaned.  How many times did he have to admit that he was a coward?

 

“Are you afraid she doesn’t feel the same?”

 

“Yes!  But it’s more than that.”

 

“Like what?”  Harry wasn’t usually this relentless.  It was not a good look for him.

 

 “It’s like if we get together … it’s just that there would be a lot riding on it.  It would be for keeps.”  It would be a _lot_ to mess up.  And Ron was good at messing stuff up.

           

“Oh … You mean like Hermione would want to be together forever?”

 

Ron shrugged.

 

“Or like you would?”

 

He groaned, closing his eyes again.

 

“Do you … do you _want_ to be with Hermione forever?”  Harry persisted, in a small, awed, almost frightened tone.

 

“Well, I sure as hell wouldn’t want to break up,” Ron snapped. 

 

When he met his best friend’s eyes, there was a challenge there.  Harry was right.  He needed to do something.  So, why wasn’t he moving?

 

After long moments of silence, Ron broke the staring contest, fixing his eyes across the room.  Finally, Harry asked almost casually, “So what does it feel like?  Being in love?”

 

Ron choked, squeaking out, “I _dunno_!”

 

“You must know, if you feel it.  Does it feel like the love potion did?” Harry asked eagerly, _too_ eagerly.  There was an undertone of anxiety in his voice.

 

“No.  Well, maybe a bit.  I dunno, Harry.  I reckon, I do think about her a lot.”  As in all the time.  Lately, anyway.

 

“Then …”

 

This was too much.  “Why are you so interested?”  Ron threw back heatedly.

 

Harry got a panicked look on his face, denying quickly, “I’m not.”

 

There was something strange about Harry’s reaction.  A slow smirk traveled over Ron’s face.  “You’re trying to figure out if you’re in love with Ginny,” he stated with awe.

 

“No!  _No_!”  Harry said vehemently, but far from convincingly.  “Just forget it.” 

 

Harry sprang from the cot with newfound energy and began skittering around the room looking for something to do.  Harry reminded Ron of Hermione when she was nervous.  Ron found himself smiling for the first time in hours.  Suddenly, he was feeling like sharing. 

 

“It’s as though,” he began, “you want to be with her all the time, even for the stupid stuff.  It feels wrong when she isn’t there, as if something’s just … missing.  You want her opinion on everything.  Even when you _know_ you aren’t going to like what her opinion is.  You start thinking her faults are cute and you stop wanting them to go away.  And somehow she makes you feel, when you are with her, as though you can to be a better person.” 

 

Obviously, Ron had spent too much time thinking about this, but his friend’s obvious distress seemed to cut through the embarrassment.  Looking up at Harry, he asked, “Does that help?”

 

Harry went stony mid-speech and was now standing half-turned away from Ron. 

 

“Yeah,” he said in a small voice, “that helps.”  He fell onto the edge of his own bed with a contemplative expression.

 

There was something in Harry’s distracted, somewhat terrified expression that made Ron feel better.  He wasn’t the only one afflicted.  Harry was in love with Ginny, who’d have thought?  Ron smiled.

 

Then, abruptly, Harry stood, turning to look at Ron with a determined, almost angry look.  “You need to tell her,” Harry announced heatedly, his fists balled.

 

“What!” Ron cried, sitting up straight.  Harry had _clearly_ gone around the bend.

 

“It’s not fair to Hermione,” Harry declared, with even more fury, advancing on Ron.

 

“I told you—”

 

“I don’t want to here any more of your coward shite.  I’m sick of it.”  Harry reached out and grabbed Ron’s shirt, pulling him to his feet. 

 

He didn’t have to use much force.  Stunned, Ron went limp.  When he gained his bearings, anger flashed through him.  Who did the little prick think he was?  With a sharp shove to his chest he disengaged Harry.  “No!” he yelled, refusing to be bullied into doing something so important.

 

“Goddamn it!”  Harry came back at him like a thing possessed, balling both hands into Ron’s shirt, yanking him forward.  He might be shorter than Ron, but Harry was surprisingly strong.  “Stop being a fucking coward and tell her _right_ now!”

 

Ron locked his arms around Harry’s shoulders and they struggled for several minutes before Harry managed to fling them both out of the door.  In response, Ron toppled him to the ground and they wrestled on the hallway carpet.  “I’ll tell her when I’m bloody ready,” he gritted out.

 

Harry’s face was so red it was almost purple.  He bellowed, his face only inches from Ron’s, “Tell her or I will, you poof!”

 

Ron froze, half-pinning his friend to the floor.  “You wouldn’t dare!”

 

“Try me,” Harry spat, then taking advantage of Ron’s distraction, gained leverage and sent them both rolling and knocking into the wall.

 

Immediately, they heard Hermione’s voice call, “What is going on out there?”

 

Ron panicked, losing his concentration.  But Harry just hissed, “If you can’t find the courage, I’ll find it for you.”  Then before Ron could pull himself together, Harry flung him away and scrambled back into his room, slamming the door shut.  The lock clicked behind him.

 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Ron yelled, standing and rushing to the door.

 

“I’m not letting you back in until you tell her.”

 

Ron growled, jiggling frantically at the doorknob.  What would happen if he kicked the door?  “Fine, I’ll sleep on the sofa then,” he yelled.  It was better than that ruddy cot anyway.

 

“I’ve got your wand,” Harry called back.

 

His head fell onto the door in frustration.  “Fuck you, Harry!”

 

“Tell her or I will.”

 

“What is going on out here?”  Ron’s head snapped over to see Hermione standing in the guest room door, looking anything but pleased.  Yeah, this was exactly the right time to tell her.

 

“Nothing, nothing,” Ron mumbled.  She frowned at him and he tried to look nonchalant, lounging against the locked door.

 

“Fine, then.  Whatever you say,” Hermione huffed with annoyance and just a touch of hurt, before turning on her heel and retreating back into her room.

 

Ron watched her go, taking in the defensive way she held herself.  Find the courage.  Goddamn it.  Taking a deep breath, he followed Hermione.

 

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

Hermione carefully closed the bedroom door behind her, trying not to slam it, trying not to cry.  These days, she always seemed to be seconds away from bitter, disappointed tears.  Ron was such a … such a … she didn’t have words harsh enough for what he was.  Sometimes, she just hated him.  Really, she did.

 

Why had she pined over him all this time was truly beyond her comprehension.  After months of dancing around on the delicious precipice of something wonderful, Hermione had finally thought they were ready.  The connection at the funeral seemed to take them that extra step. 

 

Ron had _kissed_ her, for heaven’s sake.  Maybe it was just a friendly kiss, one of comfort.  It certainly wasn’t passionate.  But he’d said … he’d _implied_ it was so much more.

 

It was just too cruel.  _He_ was cruel.  They hadn’t been alone since.  And _not_ because there hadn’t been an opportunity.  No, Ron was avoiding Hermione like the plague, which wasn’t easy in one small house.  He barely talked to her and _never_ touched her.

 

Hermione couldn’t believe that they were back to no touching.  To be teased for months with those wonderfully soft, practically constant touches, and then nothing ... they weren’t even touches.  They were _caresses_.  She was sure of it and now it was over and it wasn’t fair and she hoped Ron Weasley would burn in hell for doing this to her.

 

“Hermione,” the treacherous prat called from the other side of the door, opening it hesitatingly.  Great, _now_ Ron shows up.  Fresh from a row with Harry and with no place else to go.  Well, she wasn’t going to make it easy for him. 

 

“Yes,” Hermione snapped, rather irately.  Purposefully, she sat down on the roomy guest bed and crossed her legs.  She splayed a book out in front of her and stared at it intensely, though she couldn’t get her eyes to focus on the words.

 

“Can I …?”  Ron started to ask for permission to enter the room, then seemed to realize it would not be forth coming.  He wasn’t _stupid_.  He came in anyway.  Looking pale and nervous, he closed the door behind him.  Hermione frowned and watched as he cautiously came over and sat on her bed. 

 

“What are you doing?” Ron asked with clearly feigned casualness.

 

“Research,” Hermione said shortly.  Then added with a mean snarl, “What you are _supposed_ to be doing.”

 

“Right,” he muttered, almost to himself.  His face was twisted into a mask of discomfort as he stared off absently, his leg bouncing in a telltale sign of anxiety.

 

Hermione kept her expression carefully guarded, as she looked him over.  “What are you doing here, Ron?”  Two weeks ago she would have been thrilled to be alone with him, now she was …  She didn’t know how she felt anymore.

 

“I …um …” he babbled.  Same old Ron.  Hermione was sick and tired of it. 

 

“You had a row with Harry,” she accused, matter-of-factly.  “He locked you out and now you’re here.” 

 

“Um … no …” Ron kept his eyes to the ground as he said softly.  “Well, yes, but that’s not why I’m here.  Not _exactly_.”

 

Hermione sighed, her shoulders drooping.  She wanted to stay strong and throw Ron out.  But she couldn’t, she wanted him too much.  Feeling defeated, she asked, “Then, why are you here?”

 

“I, um … I need to talk to you?”  It was a question.  Pathetic git.

 

Her jaw clenched with frustration, could Ron never just say what was on his mind? 

 

“About _what_?” Hermione snapped.

 

His eyes jerked over.  “Important things.  This isn’t easy, you know,” Ron said heatedly, blushing.  What had happened to the boy who played with her hair so boldly in the common room, without a tint of pink on his cheeks? 

 

She stared at him, her heart speeding up in anticipation.  There was no doubt in Hermione’s mind that she would just be disappointed again, but apparently she didn’t care because she carefully closed her book and moved to sit next to Ron on the edge of the bed.

 

Ron swallowed, starting, “Hermione …”  Taking a deep breath, he turned toward her. 

Bending one knee to rest in front of him on the bed, he looked at her through lowered lashes.  “I, uh … you know I hate it when you’re hacked off at me.”

 

Hermione almost laughed.  How was she supposed to know any such thing?  Ron didn’t look all that distressed this winter.  But she mimicked his pose, turning toward him.  She lied, “I’m not angry—”

 

“Yes, you are.  I mean, I understand.  I mean …”  Ron trailed off with a frustrated grunt.  Then, suddenly, he reached out and grabbed her hand.  Hermione stiffened, the simple touch seeming insanely intense after weeks of nothing. 

 

His fingers started to play with hers and it felt fantastic.  Oh, thank heavens.  For a moment, Ron seemed fascinated by the way his fingers moved over Hermione’s, but then again, wasn’t she? 

 

“It’s just that it’s really awful when you won’t talk to me,” Ron whispered and Hermione bit her cheek to keep from snorting in disbelief.  Ron had been the one avoiding _her_. 

 

“This winter … it was just awful.”

 

The anger started to leave her; Ron’s soft touch melting her and taking away her resolve.  Why was it always so easy for him?  The sod.  “Yeah, it was,” Hermione agreed in an equally soft voice.

 

“I don’t want to go through that again,” Ron breathed huskily.  “I don’t want to lose you.”

 

After he said it, Ron seemed to be holding his breath.  He chanced a look up at her and Hermione tried to smile reassuringly.  Please, no more games.  “I don’t want to lose you, either.”

 

But if anything, Ron only seemed to get more anxious.  “Our friendship is really important, I … Hermione, I don’t want any … I don’t want a relationship to come between us again.  _Any_ relationship.”

 

Hermione felt as though she had been punched.  Her stomach sank and her eyes stung.  Why did she keep letting Ron do this to her?  “Is _that_ what you wanted to tell me?”

 

“I … no … I just needed … Before I tell you, I … can you promise me that we’ll always be best friends?  That _nothing_ will come between us?”  His eyes pleaded with her.

 

She was going to vomit.  She really, really was.  Hermione yanked her hand away and stood, needing to get as much physical distance from Ron as possible.  He was asking her for permission to date.  This was almost worse than Lavender.  How _could_ he?  After the kiss and the flirtation … 

 

Hermione crossed her arms tightly and lifted her head defiantly, determined not to cry. 

 

“You are free to date whomever you want, if that’s what you mean.”  She poured every drop of venom she had into her words.

 

Ron stared up at her, slack-jawed.  “No!  I mean …  _No_ , that’s not what I—”

 

“What _do_ you mean?”  Hermione demanded angrily, losing the battle against her tears. 

 

“You talk in riddles and metaphors and I think I know what you want, but then you turn around and do … do _this_.”  God, she hated him.

 

“ _No_!” he said, louder this time, bounding to his feet and advancing on her.  “You _don’t_ understand.  I said it wrong.  I—”  Ron tried to grab her, but Hermione backed away shaking her head rapidly.

 

“I understand _perfectly_.”  She was starting to feel hysterical, her precious control deserting her.  “You want to be able to date whomever you want and to know that reliable old Hermione will always be there, pining for you—”

 

“That’s not what I—”

 

“—you want to get off with Lavender or some Veela at the wedding—”

 

“Hermione!”

 

“—and to know you’re _best friend_ will—”

 

“Goddamn, Hermione will you listen—”

 

“—always be—”

 

Ron let out a growl that was frightening in its intensity.  Grabbing her harder than he had ever done before, he yanked her toward him roughly.  Hermione was at a loss for what he intended, until his hand closed over the back of her head.  She barely had time to think, oh dear—

 

Then his lips slammed down on hers.  Wide-eyed with shock, but still royally hacked off, Hermione struggled, pushing at his shoulders.  But Ron didn’t budge.  Instead, he wrapped his other arm around her waist, lifting her against his chest so that her toes just grazed the floor, and continued to attack her lips savagely.

 

Hermione only had about five seconds worth of resistance in her anyway.  This _was_ Ron.  Soon, she couldn’t actually remember why she was fighting him.  She whimpered and went limp, her hands curling over his shoulders.  Ron moaned in response and slanted his lips over hers in a disturbingly-skilled sort of way.

 

Then she was thinking, oh dear God, Ron was kissing her, why the hell wasn’t she responding?  She cautiously moved her lips, in wholly _unskilled_ manner.  Tentatively, she caught his roving lip to suck on it gently.

 

Ron seemed to like it, though, growling and pulling her closer.  After that, the details went a bit blurry.  It didn’t matter that she didn’t know what she was doing.  Hermione followed his lead, nipping and sucking and, yes, even biting with a fire that was rapidly getting out of control.

 

When Ron tore away, Hermione whimpered in confusion and followed his lips with hers, trying to maintain contact.  Damn his height.  Why did she have to fancy someone so damned tall?

 

“I was trying to say,” Ron said, panting harshly, attempting the ridiculous task of finishing a conversation that had been wiped completely from her memory.  “That I wouldn’t want to lose you to a relationship—”

 

“But—”  Hermione protested, struggling to remember exactly what they had been talking about.

 

Ron quickly slapped his hand over her mouth.  “A relationship with _you_ , Hermione.  _You_ and me.  Us.”  After he said it, the fear returned to his eyes and Ron swallowed audibly, his hand falling away from her lips.

 

“You and me?” Hermione asked tentatively, her mind quickly catching up now that his grip on her was loosening.  Was he implying …?  No!  She’d had enough of deciphering his implications.  This time, things needed to be spelled out, _ex_ plicatedly.

 

Ron was slowly turning red.  His arm fell from her waist as he muttered, “Yeah.” 

 

Turning away, he scrubbed his face with his hand and threw himself back down onto the edge of her bed, his shoulders slumped.  “I, um … sorry about attacking you and stuff … I just … you wouldn’t listen and …”

 

The wheels in Hermione’s head started to turn, finally working up to her usual speed.  She went over what Ron had said before, with this new context.  He was worried that a romantic relationship would hurt their friendship.  Was _that_ what the last two weeks were about? 

 

Ron was looking for reassurance.  But of what?  That if they got together they could always go back to being just friends?  Could Hermione honestly promise him that?  His friendship meant a lot to her, but … she had passed the point of no return long ago.

 

Looking down at Ron’s anxious form, Hermione drew herself up and crossed her arms protectively.  “Ron, I didn’t think I can promise that if we get together and it doesn’t work, we can still be best friends.”  His eyes jerked to hers, with a look that can only be described as terror.  Stealing herself, she continued, “In fact, I ... I’m not sure if I can be _just_ your best friend now.”

 

“What?” Ron gasped with horrified disbelief.  “But you and I and Harry, we—”

 

“I know,” she interrupted, tears in her voice.  Hermione wrapped her arms more tightly around herself and blinked at the ceiling.  She understood the consequences.  “I’m not saying I won’t be there for Harry … or you.  I just … I just can’t change how I feel.  I’ve tried, Ron.  To be honest, I don’t even remember the last time I thought of you as _just_ my friend.”

 

Desperately, she swatted at her eyes.  Ron was staring at her with a strange new intensity, his body coiled tight.

 

With another deep, and unfortunately shaky, breath Hermione continued, trying to maintain eye-contact, “My friendship with you has never felt the way it did with Harry.  How can I go back when I don’t know where back is?  It seems I’ve always wanted more.”  Her voice cracked.  This was becoming unbearably hard.  But how could she expect Ron to be direct, if she wasn’t?

 

Oh God, she was being too direct.  Hermione was telling him the opposite of what he wanted to hear.  She was ruining everything.

 

But then, Ron was on his feet, reaching for her, grabbing her arms, pulling her to the bed and … _beaming_ at her?  Hermione frowned into his smiling face as he eased her down and ran his hands almost reverently over her arms.  After two weeks of not touching her he couldn’t seem to stop, running his fingers over her shoulders, her back, her face.         

 

What the _hell_ was wrong with him?  Then to Hermione’s utter amazement, Ron leaned in to kiss her again.  Was he completely mad? 

 

Pushing away, Hermione gasped, almost hysterically, “What are you doing?  I just told you … I said I couldn’t do as you asked.”

 

Ron’s smile just got broader.  The daft git.  “I know.”

 

“Then why are you smiling?”

 

“Dunno,” Ron said gleefully. 

 

And they said girls were hard to understand.  Hermione wanted to hit him.  “But you said

you wanted to be able to go back.”

 

“I _said_ I didn’t want to lose you.”  Ron’s eyes seemed to have become fixated on her lips, causing liquid heat to settle low in her abdomen.

 

“Ron,” she whined.  Hermione hated when things weren’t logical.  How was she supposed to know what to do?  “That doesn’t make sense.”  She even stamped her foot for emphasis.  Ron’s eyes lit with delight and he laughed at her, the stupid—

 

Then he was kissing her again.  What had she been saying?  He had the most magnificent lips … Oh, dear heavens.

 

Hermione shoved him back, breathing heavily.  Why wouldn’t he let her _think_?  It was as though Ron were purposefully trying to keep her mind hopelessly muddled.  “Ron, can you make sense, please?”

 

He sighed, pulling back, his hands falling away from her.  Finally, Hermione could think again.  Then, of course, she wanted to hit herself as the first thing she thought, with her newly clear mind, was that she was that she was a complete and utter idiot.  Why, oh why, did she continually put up roadblocks to the thing she clearly wanted most?

 

Staring forward, Ron took a deep breath, and began, “When a bloke—”

 

“No!”  Hermione cried with horror, jumping to her feet.  “No!  No more ‘blokes.’  No more ‘smart girls.’  No more metaphors, or hints, or pretense that I think I understand, but really don’t—”

 

“You understand,” Ron protested, standing as well.

 

Hermione laughed hysterically.  She wished she had the same confidence in herself. 

 

“Because I’m a ‘ _smart_ girl,’ is that right?”

 

“Exactly.”  Ron looked so eager, as if that explained everything. 

 

Well, it _didn’t_.  Hermione took a step back.  She needed room for the tirade she felt building.  “Well, _this_ smart girl can’t take it anymore.  She wants it all spelled out.  You and me.  Ron and Hermione.  Just tell me how you ruddy well feel about me.”

 

Ash white, Ron stuttered, “I … I … I …”

 

“Just tell me!” she bellowed.

 

Turning, instantly, beet red, Ron screamed back, “I’m bloody in love with you, all right!”

 

Then Hermione could only blink at him, her mouth hanging open in what she was sure was a highly unattractive manner.  “Excuse me?” she whispered, absolutely _certain_ that she had misheard him.

 

“I’m in love with you,” Ron muttered softly, unable to look at her.

 

Oh.  Well.  Then she hadn’t misheard.  Wow.  Was this really happening?  It didn’t seem all that … Hermione just hadn’t been expecting _that_.  It was more than she had hoped for.  She—

 

“Are you happy now?” Ron asked miserably, once again dropping to the bed, burying his face in his hands.

 

Hermione nodded in response, although she knew she probably should _say_ something as his eyes were covered, but that would take too much concentration.  It occurred to her that she should sit.  So, she did.  Yes, that was much better.  Standing took all sorts of effort.

 

Mumbling into his hands, Ron said, “I’m sorry, if I—”

 

“No.  No,” she protested, her voice light and oddly distracted.  “I’m glad you told me.”  Ron looked dejected.  Hermione certainly didn’t want that.  She managed to pull a hand away from his face and entwine their fingers.  “I just wasn’t expecting that, is all.”

 

Hermione had _thought_ about being in love with Ron, of course.  Certainly, she’d fantasized about him confessing his love for her.  He’d never been screaming at the time.  Though, it _did_ seem strangely fitting for them. 

 

She had even wondered if she was in love with him, but dismissed the idea.  Love was something that came later.  There was a natural and logical progression in a relationship.  First fancying, then love, then lust … or was it the other way around?  She didn’t know what she was talking about, did she?  There was nothing logical about love.  And there _definitely_ wasn’t anything logical about Hermione’s relationship with Ron.

 

“Are you sure?” she asked carefully.

 

“ _Yes_!  I’m sure,” Ron snapped.  “Do you think I would have said it if I wasn’t?”

 

Hermione bit her lip, thinking it over.  “No, I don’t suppose you would,” she said, almost to herself.  Turning to him again, she began, “How—?”

 

“Don’t ask me how I know,” Ron cut off, irately.  “’Cause I just do, ok?” 

 

“Ok,” Hermione whispered.  This clearly wasn’t easy for him.  Actually, it was quite brave of Ron to say _that_ at all.

 

“You don’t have to say it back,” Ron blurted out, though he sounded angry about it.

 

“I wasn’t … I mean …” Hermione was starting to feel a bit giddy as everything started to sink in.  Ron had kissed her.  Ron had said he loved her, loved _her_.  Yes, definitely giddy.  “If you’re _sure_ that you love me—”

 

“I’m _sure_!”

 

“—and apparently you are.  Then I suppose,” Hermione said thoughtfully, “I _must_ be in love you as well.”  Tears pricked her eyes and warmth infused her as she said it out loud.  Suddenly, she was completely certain.  “Seeing as you couldn’t possibly fancy me more than I fancy you, it just stands to reason—”

 

Hermione was broken off by Ron’s incredulous laugh.  “You’re mental!”

 

“I am _not_ ,” she protested, stung.  Hermione was _trying_ to tell Ron that she loved him, a revelation she had only just made to herself and, to be honest, was just getting used to.

 

“You are,” Ron insisted.  “You can’t _rationalize_ this.”

 

Hermione bristled.  “Of course, I can.  It’s simple logic.  If you love me, and I fancy you _more_ than you fancy me, then the only possible conclusion is that I love you.”

 

Ron sputtered, his blue eyes bright and ready for an argument.  “Look … first of all, you do _not_ fancy me more than I fancy you.”

 

Hermione scoffed, rolling her eyes.  “Of course, I do.”

 

Ron drew himself up, looking her in the eye challengingly.  “How do you know?  I happen to fancy … _love_ you quite a lot.”

 

Hermione couldn’t help but smile, feeling unduly hot.  “Even so, I think this year has proven that _I_ care _more_.  I pined for you for months while you were off snogging Lav—”

 

“But I only kissed Lavender because you kissed Krum and because you thought I was a loser who—”

 

“I did not!” Hermione broke in indignantly.  She had never thought any such thing.  Why would Ron say that?

 

“You thought I couldn’t win a Quidditch match on my own _and_ you said Harry was more fanciable than me.”

 

“I did _not_!” Hermione repeated more forcibly.  “I said he was _fanciable_ , not that I fancied him.  And it had nothing whatsoever to do with you.”

 

Ron scowled at her.  “It was implied.”

 

“No, it _wasn’t_!”

 

Now, _he_ rolled his eyes.  “Regardless, the Lavender thing would have lasted a total of one night if _you_ hadn’t thrown that canary fit.”

 

“Which you deserved!”

 

“So, clearly,” Ron continued forcefully, ignoring her, “the whole Lavender incident just _proves_ that _I_ love _you,_ more.”

 

It was Hermione’s turn to sputter incredulously as Ron stared at her, smug, as if to say ‘top that.’  Only how could she top utter nonsense?  “You’re _daft_ ,” she accused, laughing at the sheer idiocy of it.

 

A wide grin covered his face, only proving her point.  “Well then, we’re both daft.”  With that, Ron reached behind her head and roughly pulled her in for another kiss.

 

This time, Hermione couldn’t think of one good reason to resist.  So, she didn’t.  Instead, she let Ron take the lead, following him instinctively, without thought.  Which was good because all she could think was, oh dear God, she was kissing Ron.  She was finally,

finally kissing Ron. 

 

And he was really good at it.  Hermione didn’t even want to _think_ about how Ron got that way.  But then his tongue grazed her lips and there was no more thought at all, just a moan and an increasing heat low in her belly.

 

Hermione sifted her hands into his hair and pulled him closer, increasing the pressure as she gave up on trying to breathe.  Ron growled into her mouth, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her until their chests collided.  It felt amazing.  Her breasts ached where they pressed against him, never having felt so sensitive. 

 

She crushed herself to him with more force, barely noticing Ron align their lips and guide hers open, just before slipping his tongue inside.  And not just a little inside, but deep and penetrating, sending a sharp lightning bolt of pleasure straight to her groin.  Hermione gave a little squeak of surprise, wrenching back.

 

“You, ok?”  Ron asked with a rough voice, struggling for breath.  His eyes were half-closed and his hair disheveled as he cupped her cheek.  Just looking at him made Hermione a bit dizzy.  Wow.  They were really here.  Wow.

 

“Fine,” she gasped, surprised at how breathless she sounded.  Hermione swallowed and was relieved when she was able to say in a normal-sounding voice, “I just wasn’t expecting … you just keep surprising me today, that’s all.  You’re _awfully_ good at this.”

 

Ron’s smile was blinding.  It reached straight to his eyes and Hermione was rewarded with an unveiled look of adoration that made her knees weak.  It was a good thing she was already seated.

 

Hermione laughed for no good reason.  “Maybe I should thank Lavender for teaching you how to do that.”

 

Ron shrugged.  “She didn’t teach me so much as let me practice with her.”

 

She frowned a bit at that.  “You could have practiced with me—”

 

He cut her off with another hard kiss.  “I’ll be sure to do that from now on,” Ron whispered against her lips, before slanting his mouth over hers again and getting right back into the heat of things. 

 

This was where the new, bold, confident Ron came out.  Hermione rather liked him.  Though, as a particularly talented flick of his tongue sent a shiver through her, Hermione realized that she was going to have to be careful.  He could devour her.

 

Then Ron opened her mouth again and proceeded to do just that.  Well, maybe being devoured wasn’t _so_ bad.  Hermione let it go on for a few more seconds before easing away, and saying breathlessly, “Give me a minute.”  She pressed her hand to her chest, feeling her heart race.

 

“Hermione?” Ron asked softly, as though something strange had just occurred to him.  “You _have_ done this before?”

 

She stiffened a bit.  Was that criticism?  “Not really,” Hermione admitted, unable to look at him.

 

“But,” Ron said with disbelief, “Ginny said you snogged that … snogged Krum.”

_That_ made her look at him.  Scowling, Hermione gasped, “Ginny?  Oh, I’ll hex her—”

 

“So, you _did_ snog Krum?” Ron persisted.

 

“Well, yes.  We kissed several times, but not like …”  She waved her hand in a way that was supposed to be dismissive, but it came off more nervous then anything else.  Hermione was starting to get flustered.  “It was never with, _you know…_ ” She said the last in a whisper.

 

 Ron grinned in a way that made her want to smack him.  “With tongue?” he supplied. 

 

Hermione nodded, blushing furiously, which only made him grin widener.  The prat. 

 

“You can say it, you know.  We were just—”

 

“Shhh,” Hermione cut off in horror.  “You don’t _talk_ about it.”

 

Ron laughed in that delighted way.  It was hard to be angry at him when he was looking at her as though she was … _loved_.  “So, this was your first _real_ snog,” he pressed.

 

Ron was clearly loving this.  Hermione rolled her eyes.  Well, she’d knock _him_ down.  “Well, McLaggen …” Fury wiped the laughter from Ron’s face and she instantly regretted saying anything.  “But I gagged and ditched him for the rest of the party,” she assured, honestly.  The possessive scowl didn’t leave and she sighed, “I took care of it.”

 

After a moment, Ron grunted in a resigned way.  “Well, I reckon none of those people matter anymore.  We’re together now.”

 

Hearing Ron say it, brought about an instantaneous flood of emotion that left her spinning.  It was brilliant.  But even so, Hermione couldn’t stop herself from teasing,

 

“Oh, are we now?”

 

Ron’s eyes flashed and he smiled.  The look on her face must be giving her away.  Hermione really must try to control her happiness.  Huskily, Ron stated, “I told you I love you.  You told me you love me.  And we snogged … _with_ tongue.”  He gave her a look that dared her to argue with what he clearly believed to be irrefutable evidence.

 

“But—”

 

Again, Ron cut her off with a kiss.  After a few seconds, Hermione pulled away, asking with a laugh, “Are you going to kiss me _every_ time you don’t like what I’m saying?”

 

Ron’s smile was huge.  “Hey, _that’s_ an idea.”

 

Hermione didn’t get out more than a mumble of protest this time.  Ron decided to be even more aggressive with his dreaded tongue.  His hands were kneading her back.  It was heavenly.  But shouldn’t they get a few things straight before her brain went completely numb?

 

Ron groaned in disappointment as she turned her head away, breaking the kiss.  He wouldn’t let her pull out of his arms though.  Panting, Hermione asked, “But what about being afraid that this will ruin our friendship and Harry needing us—?”

 

Ron moaned, whining, “We covered this.  _You_ said it would ruin our friendship if we _didn’t_ get together.”

 

Hermione blinked at him.  _That’s_ what he had taken from their conversation?  And how did he figure it was covered?  “Well, I suppose I _implied_ —”

 

“So, clearly there is only one solution,” Ron broke in impatiently, pulling her still closer.  He seemed to be getting frustrated by their position sitting next to each other.  He was squirming and staring at their legs.  There was only so close they could get in this position.  Thank heavens.  Otherwise, she wouldn’t be able to think at all.

 

“And that is?” Hermione prompted, before Ron got _too_ distracted.

 

“We just can’t break up.  You know, for the sake of our friendship.” 

 

Hermione almost didn’t catch what Ron was saying as his hand had settled on her thigh. 

 

“What?  You mean … _forever_?”

 

He paused in his delicious wandering, glancing at her face briefly, but long enough for Hermione to see him blush.  “Something like that.”

 

Hermione had no idea what to say.  Her throat had closed off anyway.  So, instead, she took a page from his book and crushed her lips to Ron’s, earning a moan of appreciation.

 

Ron broke away several delicious minutes later, looking into her eyes intensely.  “So, are we together _now_?”

 

She laughed, sniffling a little besides.  Hermione thought her face would split in two, she was smiling so wide.  “Yes, we’re together _now_.”

 

“Finally!” Ron exclaimed with a sigh of relief.

 

“Whose fault is that?” Hermione threw back, but she soon forgot what she was saying as Ron gave up on their position and tackled her to the bed.  She gasped.  Oh my. 

 

Immediately, Ron came up onto his elbow and looked down at her, worried.  “Is this ok?”

 

Hermione smiled at his concern, nodding.  “It’s ok.  But, heavens, Ron.  When you finally find your courage you don’t fool around.”

 

Ron laughed, a wonderful happy sound.  “I have a lot of time to make up for.  I wasted too much of it looking for that courage.”

 

Something in his eyes stole Hermione’s breath even quicker than he his kisses.  “But you found it,” she whispered, her voice oddly airy and ephemeral.

 

Staring at her with a frightening heat, Ron ran a slow hand over side, down the curve of her waist to rest on her hip.  Huskily, he breathed, “It’s been _here_ all along.”

 

Once again, Hermione found herself blinking back tears.  “Oh Ron, I … I _always_ knew you were brave.”

 

Ron froze, then seemed to be blinking rapidly, making Hermione wonder if he were fighting tears as well.  “Well,” he rasped, his voice still deeper, “you always were smarter than me.”

 

 


	5. Epilogue:  Something to Fight For

Harry hung back from the crowd of family and friends gathered for Bill and Fleur’s wedding.  He was watching Ron and Hermione dance.  Well, he was watching Hermione dance.  Ron was doing something utterly ridiculous that could _not_ be termed dancing. 

           

It was actually _so_ silly there was no possibility that it was _un_ intentional.  Clearly, Ron was feigning complete incompetence for the sole purpose of making Hermione giggle uncontrollably.  In that, at least, he was succeeding admirably.

     

That’s what Hermione did, now, whenever Ron did something stupid.  Not scowl, not nag or ridicule.  No, she giggled.  It was bizarre and kind of disturbing.  On occasion, it even made Harry regret the part he had played in finally getting his two best friends together.

 

Then he watched Ron playfully lunge for Hermione, catching and lifting her off the garden dance floor, spinning her around.  It was enough to make a bloke dizzy just watching them. 

 

It looked as though Hermione was going to protest, but then the pretense dissolved and she clutched Ron’s shoulders, throwing her head back in a full, deep laugh.  Harry couldn’t help but smile.  How could he regret something that made his best friends so happy?

 

Besides, this was a honeymoon period.  They had only been together for two weeks.  Hermione would be back to her usual nagging, arguing self soon enough.  Right?  He bloody well hoped so.  Harry shook his head in disbelief.  Had he just wished Hermione would nag _more_?

 

A flash of gold and brilliant red-orange glided gracefully over the dance floor, catching Harry’s attention.  He tried to keep his gaze from following it, but his eyes had a mind of their own.  They didn’t seem to be able to _not_ stare at her, no matter how painful it was.

 

Ginny was dancing with a handsome French wizard.  They were chatting gaily as he swung her expertly about in a wizard dance that Harry wouldn’t have the first clue how to perform.  Her partner was completely captivated by her, of course.  Everyone was.  And not _just_ because she looked spectacularly beautiful that day. 

 

When had Harry started thinking of Ginny as beautiful?  For so long, she was just Ron’s tiny, tomboyish little sister.  Cute, sure, but in a little-kid-kind-of-way.  Then, to be honest, she became a bit awkward-looking.  Later, she was cute again.  This time _not_ in a little-kid-way.  By last summer, Harry had definitely thought she was attractive, pretty.  But that was a side thought.  Mostly she was funny, vibrant, exciting …

 

Then out of nowhere, Harry was sure that Ginny was one of the prettiest girls at Hogwarts and was consumed by the thought that half the school wanted to date her.  But even _then_ , she hadn’t looked _this_ beautiful.  Had she become better looking or had Harry just become more observant?  Or was she beautiful because he was …?  He was what?  An idiot for even entertaining the thought, that’s what he was.

 

Ginny laughed at something the French bastard said and Harry clenched his jaw as his chest started to ache.  But then the dancing couple turned and her eyes caught his.  And there was no laughter in them.  They were flat, reflecting the same pain he was feeling.  The ache turned in to a sharp knife and twisted.

 

Harry couldn’t watch any longer.  He turned abruptly and started walking, intending on going as far from the garden as the wards would allow.  Maybe he’d go even farther.  If he ran into a Death Eater, what would be the harm?  He had his wand.  It would be one less he’d have to track down.

 

So much for spending one last happy, relaxing day with his best friends.  Harry was feeling anything _but_ relaxed.  It wasn’t even Hermione and Ron’s new couple-ness that was mucking it up.  He could tolerate that.  It was … how had he even _thought_ that he could tolerate being around Ginny like this?

 

Even now, halfway through the Quidditch pitch and out of sight of the partygoers, that last pained look in Ginny’s honey-brown eyes haunted him.  It was going to take weeks, months, to lose that image.  He almost wished that she had genuinely been enjoying that other bloke’s company.  It would have been easier.  If she didn’t want Harry back, it would be ... less complicated.

 

Who, in their right mind, ended a relationship when both people were happy?  Did that happen to normal wizards?  No, it was just Harry and his stupid screwed-up life.  Other people struggled with how to chuck girls they weren’t interested in.  Only _he_ was forced to ditch the girl he … he what?  The girl he loved?

 

It was ridiculous.  They dated for, what, a month?  Just over?  It was that stupid conversation he had had with Ron that had turned Harry upside down and made the situation so much worse.  His stupid git best friend and all his talk of being “in love.”

 

On the train leaving Hogwarts, Harry had so looked forward to this wedding.  Now, he just wanted it done.  He wanted all of it done.  He was sick of waiting.  He was sick of wasting time.  He would be seventeen in a few days, but he decided then and there he wasn’t going to wait for it.  They were going to Godric’s Hollow tomorrow.

 

He needed to start his search.  He needed to find those damn Horcruxes.  He needed to find Voldemort and … then what?  Was Harry really in so great a rush to kill or be killed?  Or both.  Very likely both.

 

“Oi, mate!  Harry!”

 

Harry suppressed a groan at the invasion and he turned to see Ron jogging toward him in Bill’s old dress robes.  They were well made, if a little worn, and a good sight better than the ones that Fred and George bought him that were now almost a foot too short. 

 

Glancing behind his best friend, Harry looked for the inevitable presence of his bushy-haired companion.  But Hermione wasn’t bushy haired anymore, was she?  Hadn’t been for a while.  Harry was so used to thinking of her that way, it was hard to get out of his head.  He kind of missed the frizzy mess.  Sometimes, he wished they hadn’t grown up at all.

 

Not seeing her, Harry called, “Where’s Hermione?”

 

Ron shrugged.  “Last I saw, she was thoroughly engrossed in a horrifically boring conversation with Lupin about a book she’s been reading or something.  Who knows?  I wasn’t paying all that much attention.”

 

Harry couldn’t help but smile.  Ron and Hermione hadn’t changed so much after all.  “That’s just because you were distracted by her cleavage,” he teased.

 

Instead of blushing, Ron laughed.  Maybe he _was_ different.  “Even so, it couldn’t hold my interest enough to suffer though _that_ conversation for long.”  He squinted at the bright sun.  “I figured I’d find you here.”

 

Harry just shrugged, not having anything else to say.  Ron gestured to a favored spot for sunbathing by the edge of the pitch.  Harry mindlessly followed behind and watched his friend, heedless of his nice clothing, flop onto his back and stare up at the sky.

 

The corners of Harry’s mouth twitched.  What the hell?  He dropped to the ground next to Ron and made himself comfortable, tucking his hands behind his head as his eyes adjusted to the mid-afternoon sun.  He sighed, relaxing.  This was better, more of what he had imagined this day to be.

 

Apparently, Ron had other ideas. “Ginny doesn’t fancy that nancy boy, you know,” he announced. 

 

Harry frowned; this was _less_ like he had imagined it.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, hoping Ron would get the hint and lay off.  How could he explain that he knew Ginny wasn’t interested in that other bloke and that was a good part of the problem?

 

 “So, Ginny dancing with that French git isn’t what sent you scurrying off to hide behind the broom shed?” Ron asked with poorly-feigned casualness.

 

Biting back a rude comment, Harry instead put on a light tone, joking.  “No, mate, it was the nauseating show you and Hermione were putting on.”

 

But Ron just laughed, not at all embarrassed.  “Please.  You’ve seen _much_ worse than that.”

 

Harry chuckled along with him, thinking anything with Ron and Hermione was a whole hell of a lot better than witnessing that mess with Ron and Lavender.  He took a piece of dry grass Ron handed him and the two friends began chewing amicably.   

 

“So, about Ginny—”

 

Argh!  “Please, Ron, I don’t … I don’t want to talk about Ginny.  It’s over.”

 

That only succeeded in shutting the prat up for a minutes, at most.  Then Ron softly disagreed, “No, it’s not over.  It’s just on hold.”

 

His words were surprisingly painful, despite the initial wave of hope that they provoked.  Maybe it was the hope itself that was painful.  Harry couldn’t accept the hope and soon the feeling turned bitter, burning like acid in his stomach. 

 

“No, Ron,” he snapped, wondering if this was his punishment for giving him hell about Hermione.  Harry should never have opened the door to talking about girls and … _feelings_ with Ron.  “Why are you …?  You didn’t even _want_ me to date Ginny.”

 

Ron ignored his angry tone, answering evenly, “I didn’t want to know about the _things_ you and Ginny did together.  I never said I didn’t want you to date her.  You’re my best mate.  She’s my sister.”  He said the last part as if it explained everything.

 

Harry came up onto his elbow to look down at Ron’s deceptively calm face.  His words … a few months, a few weeks, even, would have meant the world to him.  Now they cut like a knife.  Everywhere he turned, he saw the things he _could_ have if he wasn’t the Goddamn Chosen One, if he wasn’t so blasted noble.

 

Closing his eyes tightly, Harry threw himself onto his back, again.  Against his better judgment, he asked in a choked voice, “So, on hold, huh?  That’s your theory?”

 

Ron nodded solemnly.  “Yeah.  You want to hear the rest?”

 

No.  Really, he didn’t.  “Sure.”

 

“Well, it’s less of a theory than a plan.”

 

Harry found himself smiling.  It seemed Hermione was already starting to rub off on him.  “Is that so?”

 

“Yup,” Ron said brightly, not at all fazed by Harry’s sarcasm.  “So, I figure, you, me, and Hermione, we find these Horcrux thingies …”

 

“Thingies?”

 

“Do you want to hear or not?”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“As I was saying, we find the blasted things, we destroy them all.  Then you kill You-Kn … Voldemort.  With our help, of course.  I figure that will take six months, a year at most—”

 

A laugh unexpectedly tore from Harry’s throat.  “That long?”

 

 “I _said,_ ‘at most,’” Ron responded cheekily.  “Now listen, I’m just getting to the good part.  So anyway, we’ll all come back, hopefully too late to take our N.E.W.T.s, and Ginny will be waiting for you.  See, she’ll be so broken-hearted over _you_ that she won’t let another bloke touch her the _whole_ time we’re gone.”

 

Harry scoffed, incredulous over Ron’s little delusion.  “Ginny?”

 

“Yeah.  You saw her, mate.  She’s right depressed.”

 

She was the liveliest depressed person Harry had ever seen.  And somehow he couldn’t imagine her pining for anyone.  Even if she _was_ in pain, she wasn’t likely to sulk by herself.  The idea made Harry sick.  Maybe it wasn’t so bad being delusional.

 

“So, after we get back,” Ron continued, “you and Ginny will date for a couple of years.  No shagging of course.  You’d have too much respect for Ginny’s family for that.”

 

“Of course,” Harry agreed solemnly, thinking that Ron and his brothers would die if they knew what Ginny was like alone.  She had a lot of passion locked in that tight little … oh God, _not_ the thing to think about while lying next to her brother.

 

“You’ll date until we’re out of the Auror Academy.  They’ll ignore the no-N.E.W.T.s thing, due to the whole hero thing.”  Ron grinned cheekily at that.  “ _Then_ you’ll get married.”

 

Harry was seized with a sudden, intense coughing fit.

 

“You, ok, mate?”  Ron asked with a knowing grin.  Harry was going to punch him.  Really, he was.  The snarky bastard was enjoying this far, far too much.

 

But then it all started to sink in.  Ron wanted him to be a part of the family.  Officially.  It sounded so … it was too much to take in.  Harry couldn’t think about this right now.  Ron was probably joking anyway.

 

“Married, huh?” Harry repeated, trying to sound amused.  “I suppose, there still won’t be any shagging.”

 

Ron shrugged.  “Well, I suppose it will be all right _then_.  I just don’t want to _hear_ about it.  But, you know, how else are you going to get those seven kids?”

 

“Seven?” Harry burst out in an embarrassingly squeaky voice.  “Me and Ginny?”

 

“Yeah, you know, to play with Hermione and my kids.”

 

“I see.”  All of a sudden, a frog took residence in Harry’s throat.  “Hermione know about this?”

 

Ron scoffed.  “Of course not.  I figure I have _years_ to tell her.”

 

“Of course.  You’ll be having seven as well, then?”

 

“Don’t be daft.  Why would I want seven kids?  Right stupid, if you ask me.”

 

Eyes wide, Harry turned to look at him.  He couldn’t be serious?  Ron was still grinning and when he met Harry’s eyes he broke out into uproarious laughter.  Or maybe Harry started it, but soon they were laughing together and he was feeling a good sight better.

 

“So, how many kids _are_ you plan on having?” Harry asked, starting to enjoy himself.  He probably shouldn’t analyze that.

 

“As many as Hermione wants.  Naturally.”

 

Harry chuckled.  “What if she wants seven?”

 

“Nah, Hermione’s too smart for that,” Ron drawled, great affection evident in his tone.

 

It was hard to believe that Ron, the immature git who clumsily snogged a girl in the common room in a pathetic attempt at revenge, was actually thinking about having _children_ with Hermione.  Though, after that whole “in love” thing he pulled two weeks ago, Harry shouldn’t be surprised by anything he said or did.

 

For his part, Harry hadn’t _once_ , in his entire life, imagined having kids.  Maybe he never thought he’d live that long, or maybe he just couldn’t imagine ever _really_ have a family of his own. 

 

A family of his own.  Not just being a part of the whole Weasley clan, but to be the head of his _own_ family.  Him and Ginny and seven redheaded children with a mixture of green and brown eyes, all with a penchant for getting into trouble.  It made him ache, it sounded so good.

 

He could see them all now, on this very pitch, playing with a gaggle of bushy-haired freckle-faced counterparts, _his_ nieces and nephews.  All of them, together.  It was ... too good to be true.  Harry clenched his jaw.  “It’s a nice fantasy.”

 

“Plan, mate, _plan_.”

 

Ron had also acquired Hermione’s tenacity, it seemed.  Harry squeezed his eyes shut, feeling a wave of preemptive grief.  In order for Ron’s plan to work, they all had to survive.

 

“Ron,” Harry said seriously, sitting up.  “Why are you telling me this?”

 

Sobering, his friend rolled to his side and leaned up on one elbow.  “Well,” he said softly, “you helped me find the courage to … you know, with Hermione.  So, I figured I’d help you find … something to fight for.”

 

Harry stared at him dumbly, completely shocked that his insensitive best friend could come up with something like this.  “Something to fight for?” he repeated in a strangled voice.

 

“Yeah, something to fight for.  Something to come home for.”  Ron even managed to hold Harry’s gaze as he said it.  Bizarre.

 

“Are you _sure_ Hermione didn’t put you up to this?” Harry asked suspiciously.

 

Ron laughed.  “No.  And I’d rather not tell her about my … _plans_ for the time being.  So keep it shut, will you?”

 

A wicked smile crossed Harry’s face.  “I dunno, mate.  That seems awfully unfair.  Especially as Hermione is so essential to your … _plans_.”

 

No sooner had Harry said this, then a voice drifted over the field.  “Hey, what are you boys about, hiding up here?”

 

Hermione’s smile was teasing as she made her way over, holding her dress robes high as to not soil the hem.

 

“Here’s your chance,” Harry whispered to Ron.

 

“Shut it,” he hissed, then turned a bright smile to his girlfriend. “We’re not _hiding_.  We’re enjoying the afternoon,” Ron called out cheerily.

 

Hermione rolled her eyes, coming to stand over them.  “Generally, when one is a guest at a wedding, they enjoy the afternoon _with_ the bride and groom.”

 

“Clearly, you don’t understand wizarding wedding ways,” Ron threw back, coming up on his knees.

 

“Is that so—?  Oh—Ron!  My good robes!”  Hermione indignant protests turned into a fit of giggles as Ron tackled her knees and pulled her down on top of him.  He flipped them both over and Harry quickly averted his eyes.  “I’m going to get grass stains,” she tried to admonish, but the girlish lilt in her voice completely ruined the affect.

 

“You’re a witch,” Ron threw back.  “Ever hear of _Scourgify_?”

 

“Get off me, you oaf.” 

 

Hermione succeeded in getting Ron to roll beside her, but his arms remained firmly around her waist.  “Come on, Hermione.  Lay here with us,” Ron pleaded.

 

She looked at him with a long-suffering look and then turned to Harry.  Unfortunately, he had been watching the couple with something suspiciously like longing and didn’t have quite enough time to wipe the sadness from his face before she saw it.

 

“Fine,” Hermione breathed with a sigh.  Removing an indignant Ron’s arms from her waist, she crawled over, as primly as possible, and laid down next to Harry.

 

Ron shot Harry a grin of triumph, then glancing down at the way Hermione’s cleavage was accentuated by her position, wagged his eyebrows at his friend.  Harry rolled his eyes and did his best to keep them off said chest.

 

Flopping down on the other side of Hermione, Ron grabbed her hand and entwined their fingers, resting them on his chest.  Harry was surprised when Hermione reached out with her other hand and carefully took his.

 

Harry stiffened for a moment, before relaxing into the comfortable silence.  After a few minutes, Hermione asked, “So, what _were_ you two talking about?”

 

“Nothing,” Ron replied in an utterly calm, believable tone.

 

Harry smiled and echoed, “Nothing at all.”

 

“Yeah,” Ron continued.  “We’re blokes.  We don’t sit around jabbering about deep sh—stuff.”

 

“Humph!”

 

Harry bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.  He squinted at the clouds, finally enjoying his last peaceful day with Ron and Hermione.

 

Something to fight for, huh?  Yeah, he could fight for that.

 

 

 

* * * * *


End file.
